Pure Morning
by SironaFlett .o.x.o
Summary: A murdered prostitute's body is found. She has been poisoned, perhaps a few hours before. The city's red light is living in fear as more turn up dead. Sherlock takes John on an investigation that reveals dark secrets about his past...
1. A New Case

Detective Inspector Lestrade had just asked Sherlock to help him investigate the murder of a prostitute. Now, my friend had dismissed it at first believing it to be a simple murder because she wouldn't take only £300. But Lestrade had informed him that the girl died because of poison and not accidental strangulation and that there had been several cases exactly like it. At this, Sherlock perked up in excitement.

"Poison! Serial Killer! Ah Ha! They're always the best!" He exclaimed as the inspector left the room. Sherlock bounded around excitedly, pulling on his jacket, and then forgetting his scarf. Pulling on his scarf but forgetting his coat. I couldn't help to repress a snigger. He barely noticed. "Come, John!" He said happily. "We're going out,"

I sighed. "Where?"

"Oh, but I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise," Sherlock replied.

"If we're going to the mortuary, I'd like to know so I dress respectively," I replied.

"You would dress respectively for a dead hooker?" He asked, frowning slightly.

I rolled my eyes. "I suppose not."

Sherlock's frown deepened. "Mortuary? Why didn't I think of that? Nah, it's far more productive going on to the streets,"

"So…" I pulled on my jacket. "Where are we going?"

Sherlock grinned. "There is a strip club behind the alley where she was found. I'm sure I can get something from there,"

"Strip club?" I asked.

"Yes, do you…" Sherlock looked at me. "Have a problem with that?"

I shook my head. "I thought women didn't interest you,"

"They don't," He replied. "But they definitely have proved vital to my cases."

"Strip club?" I asked again.

"It doesn't bother you, does it?"

"No," I sighed. "I mean… it's just..." I shifted uncomfortably. "We're not in downtown L.A."

"No, we're in central London," He frowned. "Come on!" He pulled me by the wrist's yanking me down the stairs. "Mrs Hudson!"

"I doubt we need to bother her," I said.

"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock shouted, ignoring my comment. "I am expecting a call from someone, please take a message,"

"Alright, Sherlock…" Mrs Hudson called. "But remember I'm not a maid, I'm just a-"

But we were out of the door before she could finish. Sherlock led me down the narrowed streets, taking long strides; I had to jog to keep up with him. He knew exactly where he was going, I however, did not.

"So," I said. "What did the file say that Lestrade handed over?"

"Not much," Sherlock shrugged. "Nothing I couldn't deduce myself. No photo's though. I always do enjoy a photo. Helps picture the scene more clearly. I assume they've moved the body." His face fell slightly. "Ah well, I'm sure Anderson's got some saved on his computer,"

"You break into… Anderson's computer?" I asked.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I steal Lestrade's badge and go after murderers on my own, I break into secure locations and you are surprised that I sometimes get into Anderson's computer and look at his pictures? Mind you some of the content does make me a little uncomfortable,"

"Naked ladies?"

"What else?"

"Naked men?"

"It's Anderson," Sherlock smiled. "I wouldn't be surprised." He then found the street he was looking for. He watched as a few men stepped inside, looking around to see if anyone was watching them. Sherlock made his way to the door and wrapped his knuckles on the wood a few times. The door creaked open and a bulky looking man glared out at us.

"Oh," Sherlock said. "I was rather hoping that it was going to be Philip on the door tonight. Nevertheless,"

The bodyguard gave an almost toothless grin. "Ah, Mr Holmes, step inside,"

I frowned, as Sherlock led me inside the room. Heavy dance music filled my ears. "You're known here?" I asked.

He nodded. "Yes, I helped the owner win back his rights to own the place after a massive sex scandal," He made his way to a table, a little away from the stage. Clearly this was his table. He sat down, shifting his coat and removing his scarf. He peered around the entire bar, looking for someone in particular. "I wonder if she's working tonight,"

"If not," I said. "It won't be a wasted night,"

"Heya sugar," said a voice. "Fancy a drink?"

I looked up. A slutty looking pirate looked down at me. "Um, yes," I said. "Beer, would be fine,"

"What about you sweetcheeks?"

Sherlock looked around. "What? Um… Yes… Coca Cola will be fine,"

The slutty pirate gave me a look. "It is a bar sweetie."

"I know," Sherlock replied, still staring around the bar. He turned back to her. "New here aren't you?" He asked, it wasn't much of a question.

"He's always like this," I said.

The slutty pirate rolled her eyes. "Sure, whatever," She began to move away.

"Wait!" Sherlock called her back. "Is Sabrina working tonight?"

The pirate chewed her gum a little. "Yeah, she's on next,"

Sherlock leaned back on his chair. "Excellent," He said, pressing his fingertips together. The pirate stalked off. A few minutes passed before anything else was said. A heavy tune began to beat out of the stereo. A sexy stripper stalked out of the red curtains wearing very little but sexy purple underwear and dangerous looking stilettos. Sherlock leaned forward, his eyes intense. The girl began to writhe around sexually.

Sherlock remained cold, uncaring and unmoved. But I felt uncomfortable. I wasn't used to this. Being in the presence of women that were so attractive. Sherlock leaned closer, tucking some money and a note into her g-string. He made no show that he was interested in her though.

The girl nodded at him and then did a very sexy pole dance before strutting off the stage. A few minutes passed. The girl came in from one of the side doors tying a dressing gown. She sat opposite us and crossed her legs.

"Alright, Shirley," She said. "Talk to me,"

"You know each other?" I asked.

Sherlock gave us a look. "We… Used to…" He looked away pointedly.

She sniggered. "We used to date. He was so pretentious. Stuck up and arrogant." She leaned forward shaking my hand. "Sabrina."

"Is that you're real name?" I asked.

She laughed. "Nope. And I'm not going to tell you what it is." She said. "Now what is it?"

"Didn't you read my letter?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

"Of course I did!" Sabrina said. "But I can't get much from 'Murdered Hooker'."

"Do you know anything about it?" I asked.

"You his colleague?" She asked. "Wow. I always thought he worked alone,"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sabrina, focus!"

"Right." Sabrina pulled out an envelope from her bra. "Talk to this guy. He works with helping whore's get into college and such. As far as I know, she was with him last night."

"What's her real name?" I asked. Sherlock gave me another look that suggested that it wasn't really important.

"Real names?" Sabrina asked. "You don't get a lot of real names in this kinda business. It was a weird name I know that much."

"Could this guy be doing it?" I asked.

"No," Sabrina said. "Otherwise lovely Shirley here wouldn't be so interested."

"Shirley a pet name for you?" I asked.

"Would you stop asking questions?" Sherlock asked. I fell silent. Sherlock leaned forward. "Sabrina," He said calmly. "I want you to be on your guard,"

"It would help a lot more if you actually allowed me to have one of your pepper spray cans."

"How many times?" Sherlock asked rhetorically.

Sabrina gave a small smile. She stood up and gave my friend a small kiss on the forehead. He made no movement. She shook my hand and went off back through the side door. Sherlock sighed, thinking.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

He picked up his scarf and twisted it around his neck. "We need to go see Molly,"

"The mortuary girl?" I asked

"Yes," He replied.

"Why Shirley?" I asked.

**Comments please.**


	2. Steps

Sherlock took massive strides his long legs barely bending as he moved quickly through the streets of London. As ever, I was jogging to keep up with him. By anything, this comradeship would keep my heart healthy. He stared contently at the letter that Sabrina had given him. His face contorted into a frown. He managed to step out of the way of people even though he wouldn't look up. I however, kept bumping into people.

"Sherlock," I panted, catching up with him at a crowded crossing. "Would you please slow down?"

He either didn't hear me, or, he ignored my request. He gave me a glare but continued to look at the letter.

I sighed, straightening up, just as the lights turned green and he began to rush across the street at incredible speeds. I chased after him. "Alright then," I said. "What did Sabrina give you?"

He didn't answer. He stopped suddenly making me loose my balance. I almost toppled over except he grabbed my arm excitedly and wheeled me around. "This is it," He said happily. I looked up it was a run down block of flats. They probably hadn't been in use for a while. Sherlock strode around the building for a few times before coming to a stop back at the entrance. I felt my phone buzz against my leg. I pulled it out and answered.

"Hello?" I asked. There was no reply. I frowned and looked at the caller ID. No number was available. I put it back to my ear. "Harry is that you?"

Then there was a voice, low and menacing. _"Keep your friend Sherlock Holmes away from here!"_

The line went dead. Sherlock looked over at me. "Someone doesn't want you here." I informed him.

He shrugged. "Part and parcel to the business," He said. "John, could you help me?" He nodded towards a sewer grate that he was trying to lift away. I shoved my phone into my jacket pocket and went over to help him.

"I thought," I said as a wrestled to move the metal. "That the guy we were looking for lives in the buildings!"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course he does! However, the best way to get about the city is by underground,"

"Is that because there is no traffic?" I asked stupidly.

Sherlock frowned at me. "No," He said. "Because there are no people," He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and clicked it on, peering down into the sewers. "Ah… This is going to be rather undignified." He put the flashlight in his mouth.

"Sherlock," I said. "I have to get back to the apartment. All well this is going through sewers for no apparent reason, but I have work in the morning-" I checked my watch. "Oh er… make that, I have work in several hours,"

Sherlock gave me one of his trademark looks that seemed to suggest 'Why on earth would you want to do such a mundane thing as working?' He said nothing however and nodded.

"I'll see you later then," I said.

He ignored me again and dropped into the sewer leaving me standing next to an open grate. Sighing, I made my way to the main street to get a taxi to the apartment.

…

Sherlock placed a delicate handkerchief over his mouth and nostrils as he stared upon the carcass of a female form. Flesh had rotted away to reveal the muscle textures. Clothes had been strewn across the sewer floor. Not that there was much in the way of clothes; there was a small denim mini-skirt and a black bodice. Sherlock had every right to assume that she too was a prostitute. He couldn't be sure that she was victim of the same murderer. He leaned forward to examine the neck and mouth. Of course, he was no medical marvel, but he could safely deduce that she had not been suffocated stabbed or shot. He leaned closer, lifting the head and checking her hair. A large clump had been pulled out. He lifted her right ankle, examining it for a long moment. There on the ball of the joint was a carved symbol it looked like the Was Sceptre.

He sighed and leaned back. He hadn't told John that the prostitutes had had their hair pulled out, he hadn't said anything about the Egyptian symbol carved into the inside of their right ankles. He sat thinking for a moment. With regular checks on the city's sewage system plus the rate at which her body had broken down, she couldn't have been here more than six months. That meant that the killer had probably been killing for less than two years. This was probably one of his first victims. So he kills, panics then stuffs the body into a sewer. Perhaps one part of the sewer that was less checked. But as the months went on, the body gradually moves to a more well… less secretive spot.

Sherlock sighed again. His thoughts were becoming clouded by the thick fumes of decomposing body. He brushed the dirt off his jacket and turned left at the fork in the sewers and found an exit. He pulled himself up the ladder and shoved open the grate. Once out, he pulled out John's phone that he pick-pocketed earlier that night and dialled Lestrade.

…

I sat down on the armchair with a book at hand. It seemed pointless to bother going to get some sleep when I would have to get up in less than three hours. To counter-act the effects of my nocturnal ways, I had managed to get my hands on some caffeine pills. I sighed and leaned back, happy to get some well deserved rest.

Then the two words I dreaded to hear this early in the morning.

"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock shouted as he bounded up the stairs. He caught sight of me on the armchair and he raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were going to bed…"

"I can't see why; I have to get up so soon," I replied haughtily.

Sherlock raised a curious eyebrow. He checked his own watch. "Oops," He muttered. "Ah, yes that reminds me," He pulled my mobile phone out of his pocket and threw it at me.

I stared at it, before deciding that it was best not knowing, nodded and put it on the coffee table. "You're welcome," I said.

"I never said thank you," Sherlock frowned. I suppressed a unsympathetic sigh. His social skills were again not playing up to scratch. I didn't answer but buried my head into my book.

"Aren't you going to ask me what I found?" He asked. I looked up at him. God he was pathetic, trying to focus all attention on his findings. It was almost like a child.

I snapped the book shut; I think I made him jump a little.

"You found the guy?" I asked.

"In the sewers? C'mon John, think it through!" Sherlock said. He sat on the other armchair, crossing his legs into the lotus position, he pressed his fingertips together, he was practically bouncing with anticipation.

"Alright then, Sherlock," I said. "What did you find?"

He leaned forward. "Another body," He leapt up and began to pace about the room. "It's fantastic! It's one of his first victims, mistakes everywhere. Even the carved tattoo holds vital clues!"

"What?" I asked.

Sherlock stopped pacing. "Damn," He muttered. Obviously he didn't want to tell me that. He looked back at me, jumping onto the armchair. "Each of his victims had a carved symbol on their right ankle and a large clump of their hair missing."

"Are you thinking some sort of fetish?" I asked.

Sherlock gave a little grin. "John, you know me. I'm married to my work,"

"No, I mean… Does the murder have a fetish?" I asked.

Sherlock's eyes began to wander. I knew he was thinking again. He suddenly bounded off the chair. This was getting on my last nerves.

"So, can you tell if it is a male or female murderer?" I asked.

"It's a male no doubt," He replied. "Why would you think it's a female?"

"Well, you never know nowadays. Women hire female prostitutes too."

"Does your sister?" He asked, inquisitive. I fell silent. Sherlock knew he stepped on some personal ground. He sighed. "A woman makes things personal. They are hard wired to make things that way. A male murderer is unattached to the world and is more likely to make the murder about themselves. A female murderer would make it about their need to control. Of course there are exceptions, but it is far more likely that this murderer is indeed male."

"Since when did you like the 'likely'?" I asked.

"Since we're dealing with a serial killer," He replied. "Where is she? Mrs Hudson!"

"Sherlock, leave her," I said. "She's sleeping,"

"Obviously," Sherlock replied. "I'm obviously not, Mrs Hudson!"

"There was no call," I said. "There was no message,"

Sherlock looked downhearted. He sighed. I leaned forward, still interested. "You said something about a carved symbol…?"

"A trademark. He wants to be noticed. Perhaps he's had a grievance in the past that no one has listened to and this is his way to exact revenge." He looked over at me stuffing his hands into his pockets. "You look a little surprised."

I shook my head. "I was just thinking that I might have stepped into a Shakespearean tragedy."

"I never cared much for Shakespeare," Sherlock shrugged.

I frowned. "Really?"

"Again, you look surprised,"

"I thought you would consider him to be one of the greats," I said.

"No, he annoys me. Never gets straight to the point… And always leaves us guessing, I don't like that," He replied.

"We're getting off topic," I said. "What was the symbol?"

"Ah yes," Sherlock said. He fell silent. I raised an eyebrow.

"Well?" I asked.

He looked over at me. "The symbol is Egyptian… Ancient Egyptian to be correct, known as the 'Was Sceptre'… I can't exactly remember…" He stood on the armchair reaching over to his large collection of books. His long fingers traced the spines as he looked carefully. He pulled out a red leather bound one. "Ah ha!" He said triumphant. "I got this for a birthday present," He informed me.

"From who?" I asked, surprised that he had ever gotten a gift in his life.

He frowned. "My mother," He said.

I yawned. "If it's all right with you," I said, sleepily. "I'm going to go get some sleep,"

Sherlock checked his watch. "Why?" He asked."You weren't going to bed ten minutes ago, it's later now, less sleep…?"

I sighed. "I don't want to talk to you about murders," I admitted.

"There," Sherlock said satisfied. "Wasn't so difficult for you to say the truth, was it?" I gave him a look and he smirked. "Goodnight Dr Watson," He said.

"Night, Mr Holmes,"

**Comments are well appreciated!**


	3. Investigations

I entered the living room having just showered to find it empty. Had Sherlock gone to bed? I rubbed my hair with the towel and flung it to the side buttoning up my shirt.

"Sherlock?" I called, looking around. "Sherlock?"

"What?" He asked entering the room, making me jump. He was shuffling the letters in his hand.

"I thought you had gone out," I said.

"Nah," He replied. "I've been working,"

"I see that," I looked around the flat. He had left a mess in his wake. Books and such were flung around without much care, pages had been ripped out of notebooks and there were ten or eleven cups of coffee sitting on the floor. Used nicotine patches were flung near the bin, but always missed. "Did you find out what the symbol meant?" I asked shifting some papers off one of the armchairs and sat down.

"It took me a while since it is written in Egyptian," He replied. "I haven't studied since I was six." He gave a small sad smile. "God, I do miss it,"

"So?" I asked.

"Ah yes," Sherlock grabbed a few sheets of paper, running his fingers through them. He pulled out a sheet and handed it to me. In his thin writing, was a description of the Was Sceptre. I squinted, unable to read it.

Sherlock grew exasperated. He took the paper from me and read out what he had written. "This symbol is one that means power, dominance. Egyptian Deities used it to express their over-rule, then there are some things about how the murderer likes the symbolism and such."

"You would make an excellent doctor," I said, not concentrating on what he said.

"How so?" He asked.

"Well, you know what they say about Doctors handwriting," I said.

"No… What do they say about doctor's handwriting?" Sherlock asked, genuinely interested.

"That… their handwriting… It's a bit crap," I said feebly.

Sherlock seemed amused. "Is that supposed to be witty?" He asked.

"No," I shrugged. "I'm just making an observation,"

"Can you not make a more helpful observation?" He asked. "No, I guess not," I tried giving him a look that suggested that I was not amused by his comment. It didn't work.

"So… The guy wants to make a stir?" I asked. "Why hasn't he shown his face?"

"He wants to make a stir, John, not be arrested." Sherlock replied. "I don't know why Egyptian and I don't know why he pulls out the women's hair… I'm meeting with Lestrade later today. We're going to be inspecting the bodies."

"You want me to come along?" I asked.

Sherlock observed me for a moment. "Yes," He said. "Why not? I could do with the company and I can't exactly muse out loud,"

"Lost your skull again?" I asked.

"Yes," He replied. "He seems to have gone walking again,"

"How could your skull go walking if it doesn't have a body?" I asked.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "It was a joke, John. I thought that would have been blatantly obvious. Skulls can't go walking on their own. That is the joke."

"You're just so serious all of the time," I replied. "I never thought you would be able to even comprehend humour,"

"I may be smart," Sherlock said. "But I'm still human – don't look at me like that!"

"You are anything but human," I said. "You're completely wacked out of humanity!"

"Whacked out?" Sherlock had difficulty interpreting the phrase. "As in, not in touch?"

I sighed. "Yes, alright. You're not in touch with reality," Sherlock didn't reply. He lowered his eyes, thinking again. I sighed. "You never said,"

"I never said what?" He asked.

"You never said if you found the guy," I said. "Actually you never really said what Sabrina gave you,"

Sherlock looked a little surprised. "I didn't?" He asked. "My apologises," He leapt onto his chair. A moment passed between us.

"Well?" I asked exasperated.

"I found him back at the flats after I found the body," Sherlock replied. "He wasn't saying much. Lestrade took him in. We fear that he suffers from Schizophrenia, acutely brought on by what he saw… Something traumatic… He won't talk…"

"So Sabrina led you to him," I worked it out slowly in my head. "But we were outside the apartment… You decided to go through the sewers, just to come back to the same apartment…"

"Where are you going with this?" Sherlock asked.

"Why did you go through the sewers?" I asked.

Sherlock smirked. "A city this big needs good plumbing. There was a reported block in the flow last night. I was simply curious,"

"And you couldn't wait for council officials to find it?"

"Oh they ruin everything," He replied. "Blasted idiots. They'd probably chop the body up with a spade thinking it was a clump of faeces. No, it was better I check first,"

"Do you check every sewer link in the city?" I asked.

"If there is a severe blockage, yes," Sherlock said. "I'm better than most council sewage cleaners. The sewers are the best place to put a body, it's teaming with bacteria and other people's excrement" He smirked.

"You know, I don't doubt that," I said. "So you took me to the apartment, in case you didn't return by morning?"

"I was sure that I was going to return," Sherlock replied. "It was a precaution that was all. I knew you had work in the morning, so if you woke up and I had not returned you could easily come and check if I had been shot,"

"And you couldn't have told me?" I asked.

"Well, you remember the call you got last night," He said. "People earnestly try to kill me,"

"And you couldn't have just shown me what was on the paper?" I asked, things were becoming clearer, but I'd probably need to map it out large letters to connect it all.

"John," Sherlock said. "People are earnestly trying to kill me. I couldn't have handed you the paper in case you lost it. I mean, honestly you are not the most careful of colleagues,"

"When you're done insulting me," I said.

"Oh no," Sherlock smiled. "Everyone is, don't put yourself down,"

I sighed. "So… You have how many murdered prostitutes?"

"Roughly?" Sherlock sighed. "Six or seven,"

"Great, so… Seven maximum murdered prostitutes, a schizophrenic, a weird ancient symbol tattooed to their right ankles and clumps of their hair missing…" I said. "Anything I missed out?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I don't know," He admitted. "It would seem that it is connected but…"

I raised an eyebrow. "But…?" He didn't answer. "Sherlock," He looked up. "Are these murders connected or not?"

"I don't know," He muttered, he put his fingers together.

I sighed, checking my watch. "Alright, I have to get to work." Sherlock never said anything. I was getting annoyed. "Don't wait up," I pulled on my suit jacket. "Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Shall I get a takeaway when I come back?" I asked.

He made no movement. "Yes," he muttered.

"Right," I picked up my briefcase and hurried down the stairs.

"Is that you away John?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"Yes," I answered.

"Is he going to be alright?" She asked. "I mean, he is very reckless when he has a case…"

I gave a quick glance towards the stairs. "He should be alright, just make sure that he doesn't do anything stupid,"

"Alright, dear. But remember, I'm your landlady. Not your housekeeper,"

**I, sadly, have nothing to do during the Summer Holidays and I'd rather not do my homework... Comments are always appreciated**


	4. Bodies

I tucked the newspaper under my arm and entered the living room. Sherlock was sleeping on his armchair covered under a thick layer of books. In one hand, his book hung limply and in the other the bow to his violin. His suit was crumpled and his hair… Well, the less said about his hair, I think the better. I sighed and slammed the door shut. He jumped up and rubbed his eyes, running his fingers through his hair trying desperately to untangle the mess.

"John," He muttered. "You're back already?"

I looked around the bomb of an apartment. "And you haven't done a thing since I left," I said grumpily.

"That was fifteen minutes ago!" Sherlock complained.

"That was eight hours ago!" I replied.

Sherlock frowned. He checked his watch. "Damn," He muttered. "By the way John," I looked up from my dismal attempt to clear the kitchen table. "Those caffeine pills don't work,"

"You took my… You took my… My… Pills?" I struggled to find words. Sherlock tossed me the empty bottle. "You took the whole lot?" I asked.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, shifting some papers.

"You're only supposed to take two!" I cried.

Sherlock's face furrowed. "Am I?" He asked, yawning. "Is that why I dosed off?"

"Probably," I said, fixing the plates onto the table; the Indian would need reheating. "You have a serious problem. You've got to talk to someone about that,"

Sherlock leapt off his chair and began to pace. Of course, talking to me would be too much trouble. I rolled my eyes and stuffed the takeaway for two into the microwave. Sherlock paced a few more steps. Then bounded out of the apartment.

"Sherlock?" I shouted. "Sherlock!" I sighed and slammed home on the microwave, grabbing my jacket and following him down the stairs.

He was already putting on his scarf.

"Is that you two off then?" Mrs Hudson called.

"Yes," I replied, turning to Sherlock. "What about dinner?" I hissed.

Sherlock frowned. "Dinner?"

"The Indian takeaway I got!" I answered.

"Oh." Sherlock frowned. "Were you hoping to get some action tonight?" He asked innocently.

I looked at him shocked. I zipped up my jacket. "So where are we going?" I asked.

"To see Ms Molly Hopper," Sherlock replied. "I've wasted a whole day, John. I shall not waste a whole night," He pulled on his gloves and stepped out onto the busy street. He flagged down a taxi and got inside. He informed the Taxi driver of our destination. He waited till I had climbed in and then shut the door. The Taxi driver (who I felt very unnerved about given the first case Sherlock and I had) gave a quick nod and drove off.

…

Sherlock and I stepped out of the cab and I handed over a twenty. The driver tipped his cap and drove off. Sherlock looked up at the impressive building before tucking his hands into his coat pockets and stalking off into the main entrance. Instead of going straight off to the mortuary he took a detour to the cafeteria.

He looked around the food, sniffing it like a bloodhound. He did not like what he smelt. His eyes glazed over the cafeteria. There sat little Molly Hopper on her own with a coffee and a bunch of papers.

"Molly!" Sherlock said enthusiastically walking up to her. Molly flustered standing up.

"Mr Holmes," She said, her face going red. "What… What can…? What can I help you with?"

"Sherlock, please," He insisted, his mouth curling into a smile. I looked at him, was it hurting him to be nice? "Is that a new blouse?"

Molly nodded, tugging at the collar of the deep red shirt. "Got it yesterday," She mumbled.

"The colour is nice," He said kindly. "It suits you,"

Was Sherlock flirting? I wondered. I coughed loudly, drawing Sherlock's attention to the forefront.

"Ah yes," He said. "Dreadful business as always. But I believe you have several new cadavers for me to look at?"

Molly nodded. "But, shouldn't we wait for Detective Lestrade?" She asked.

Sherlock frowned, stumped. His face broke out into a humble smile. "Of course we should," He said. "But to save time, I think I should have a look over before the detective arrives,"

Molly nodded.

"Excellent," Sherlock cried, clapping his hands together. "We shall see you upstairs in… Ten minutes? No, no, finish your coffee first,"

He smiled and took me by the elbow, dragging me out of the cafeteria. I sighed, shrugging him off me. "Why don't you just have sex with her there on the table?" I asked.

"Beg your pardon?" Sherlock asked bemused.

"That!" I said. "You were flirting with her!"

Sherlock stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Come, come, John. That's a little high school."

"So women do interest you!" I said. Sherlock gave me a look. "Ah, right yes," I muttered, strangely I was getting embarrassed. "Married to your work…"

"You're not disappointed are you?" He asked.

"No," I replied quickly. "God, no."

Sherlock grinned and he opened the doors to the mortuary. He had a swift look around, before taking off his coat and scarf and hanging it on the rail. He paced a few times waiting patiently. I sighed.

"Why don't you just, break it open?" I asked.

Sherlock looked a little hurt. "I'm a vigilante, John. Not a criminal."

"Same thing really," I shrugged. Sherlock ignored this comment. Molly came in a few seconds later and opened one of the vaults. She pulled out a gurney and unzipped the blag bag. Sherlock peered into it, pulling on some latex gloves

He took a few minutes and I watched him curiously. He straightened up smiling with himself after a brief moment.

"You've got something that you are very proud of, haven't you?" I asked.

Sherlock smiled taking out his mobile. "Why don't you try John?" He asked.

I sighed and pulled the bag down staring at the body. "Well," I said. "She's about twenty-six when she died. Poison administered orally, there's no since of sexual assault, let alone your normal assault. That means she must have known him vaguely." I looked up at Sherlock who nodded, urging me to go on. I picked up her hand. "She's bloated, dead for a few days at least. Hair been ripped out, just above the left temple. Originally a redhead, but she's died it blonde." I sniffed it. "Peroxide hasn't quite washed out; I assume she was still a redhead just a few days before her murder." I looked up again.

"Go on," He urged.

I sighed, looking the body over again. "Some of her jewellery is missing. You can see the tan line where she wore her rings."

"Excellent!" Sherlock cried. "But completely irrelevant. I must say, you are making wonderful deduction skills of your own,"

"Okay," I said. "What did you find out?"

Sherlock smirked. He rushed forward. "Notice her swelling stomach?" He asked. "No way would you find one on a prostitute, especially high class ones-"

"She was high class?" Molly asked.

Sherlock gave her a small smile. "Her clothes," He said.

"She's not wearing any," I informed him.

"Yes, well done!" Sherlock said. He strode over to several clear plastic bags. "I noticed them earlier; Prada, Gucci, Jane Norman. All top designers."

"Alright, you proved a point," I interrupted. "High class prostitute, swelling…?"

"The body swells when we die," Sherlock said. "Due to the blood not being pumped it sits there. Now the entire body should be swollen, but the stomach is particularly enlarged."

"So… Poison enlarged the stomach?" Molly asked.

Sherlock shook his head. I looked up at him. "Oh god," I said, "She's not-"

"Three months," He said. "At least, she didn't know of course. However, not relevant,"

"You just told us she was pregnant!" I argued.

"Is that going to change her fate?" Sherlock asked. "Now, poison was ingested, I'm assuming by a shot glass. She probably did a bit of drugs before coming out,"

"The small bit of white hanging from her nostrils," I concluded. Sherlock grinned.

"Now, you were right about her age, right about the fact that there was no assault. Her hair has been dyed recently but it wasn't the first time. She probably has a regular appointment with a hairdresser. She is approximately 108 pounds, she is 5ft 7'', she has a subscription to a gym, regularly works out… And her name is Grace Williams,"

"How could you possibly know that?" I asked. Sherlock lifted the girl's hair and revealed the small tattoo behind her right ear.

"G. Williams." He said. "I selected the most common name and put it to the case,"

"Could be Gwen," Molly suggested silently.

"Or Georgina," I said.

Sherlock grew exasperated. "Grace, Georgina, Gwen; who cares?" He sighed. "No, you're right, that is important. But we know her last name, so we should be alright…" He clapped his hands together. "Molly, my dear," He said. "Could we see one of the other bodies please?"


	5. Coffee

Sherlock looked up from his work. John and Molly were sleeping silently, their heads resting on the table. He sighed shutting his notebook quietly, staring at the body of the last murdered prostitute. He had seen the mark before. He had seen the mark on other murdered victims. Of course he had. He couldn't remember what it meant of course. He may be smart, but any useless information had been forced out to make room for the more important and frankly more interesting things.

In fact, Sherlock had seen the symbol several times before. Not in books, but carved into other body parts. If he had not been mistaken, there had been a case in America in which an Egyptian symbol had been carved into the small of the murdered woman's back. He had not made the link. He thought it through carefully. No… A serial killer would be precise. He would make every single one the same. He could make a few mistakes to begin with, but there were too many mistakes… Especially for one killer.

John yawned stupidly, turning over almost falling off the table. He lifted his head and grumbled something inaudibly before slumping back into an unpleasant slumber. Sherlock heard footsteps on the floor outside. He stepped out seeing Detective Lestrade march to the mortuary.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said, smiling. "You're late,"

"Yes, yes," Lestrade said unhappily. "I know, I know… But you weren't supposed to get started until I arrived,"

"Yes, well you took so long getting here; I thought I might as well start,"

Lestrade looked inside the mortuary. "Look's like you've already finished." He grunted. "Never mind then,"

"Why are you late?" Sherlock asked curious. He saw a tiny splatter of blood on Lestrade's left shirt cuff. No cut- someone else's. A murder? Sherlock knew this, but he wanted to hear it from the horse's mouth.

Lestrade sighed. "There was another murder." He said. "Sherlock, I need to know what you've got. I'm desperate. The red light district is… Well… Some are asking for protection that I can't give,"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Have you moved the body?" He asked, genuinely uninterested.

Lestrade shook his head. "It'll be here by tomorrow morning-"

"Damn," Sherlock muttered, he began to pace furiously, his hands behind his back.

"But…" Lestrade said. "I have pictures,"

Sherlock brightened up. Lestrade pulled out an envelope filled with Polaroid pictures and handed it to the consulting detective. Sherlock rifled through them excitedly, his eyes flickering going over the pictures. Lestrade watched him.

"Anything?" He asked.

Sherlock looked up. "I'm not sure yet." He muttered. "Thank you for getting pictures of the scene," He then muttered under his breath, too low for Lestrade to hear. "Even if they are rubbish,"

"I thought you would like that," Lestrade said, tucking his hands into his pockets. He glared into the mortuary. "Dear god, Sherlock!" He cried. "How long have you been at this?"

Sherlock looked up and caught Lestrade's gaze. His eyes fell upon the figures of John and Molly sleeping. "About 3 to 4 hours,"

Lestrade frowned. It wasn't unusual behaviour for Sherlock that was for sure. He hated to see a young man, especially at Sherlock's age to put himself through so much mental turmoil. Lestrade was trained for this sort of stuff. He got a payment at the end of each case, he managed to sustain a degree of intimacy with his family. When Sherlock did what he did… He had nothing else to gain except the pleasure of solving the puzzle.

Sherlock carefully looked at the photos, confused by what he saw. "What time was death put at?" He asked.

"Around 11:31pm." Lestrade replied.

Sherlock frowned. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!" He cried. "That's not right! That can't be right!"

Lestrade tucked his hands into his pockets. "What's not right?" He asked.

Sherlock looked up. "I need to see that body, I need to see it now," He said.

"You are not in the position to be giving me orders!" Lestrade snapped. "Now tell me what the hell is wrong!"

Sherlock began to pace. He flung the envelope with the Polaroid's aside onto the desk. His thin face pursed curiously.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted. He looked back at Molly, her face tilting up as she heard him. "Sorry," He muttered. She shrugged and rested her head back onto the table before drifting back off to sleep.

"I need some coffee," Sherlock muttered. "Go home. You're no use to me right now,"

….

Someone was rocking me back and forward. At first I thought it was mum waking me up for school. Then I remember that I was not in school anymore. Then I began thinking that it was Mike from Bart's. I blinked, looking up at Sherlock.

"Good… Evening," Sherlock said. "Get up; we're getting a coffee,"

"Go away," I muttered.

Sherlock folded his arms. "You woke me up earlier," He retorted. "Now, if you don't get up I will do something I might regret,"

I yawned stretching. I sae Molly lying opposite me. I tapped her gently on the shoulder.

"No," She said. "No, Toby go away!"

I frowned as she looked up blinking. Her make-up was smudged down her cheeks. I handed her a wipe. She took it muttering thanks. Sherlock began to tug at my coat (which I noticed I still had on) it was like he was an innocent child.

"C'mon John!" He said earnestly. "Coffee!"

Molly stood up. "I'll come with," She said brightly.

Sherlock reared up on her. I had a funny feeling we weren't going out for coffee. His face broke out into a smile. "No, Molly dear," He said. "I think we have extended our welcome. Why don't you go home? Speak to your kitten, write your blog,"

"Um…" Molly looked confused. "Okay…" She signed her name on a few forms before following Sherlock and I out of the mortuary. She locked the door with a key card, tucking it into her lab coat. Sherlock extended his leather gloved hand to hers.

"As ever, my dear," He said. "You have been of great use to us," He leant forward (or was it down?) and kissed her on the cheek. She looked shocked. I looked shocked. She blushed furiously before scampering off down the hall.

I gave Sherlock a look. "Alright, what did you take out of her pocket?" I asked.

"Can't you just believe that I like her?" Sherlock asked, he began striding down the corridor in the opposite direction.

"No,"

Sherlock chuckled. "So much faith in me," He muttered. He pulled the key card with Molly's name out of his pocket. "Just in case we need to get back in,"

"You're a right piece of work, Sherlock," I said.

"I know," Sherlock shrugged. "It's really fun,"

I sighed. "So… Where are we going?"

Sherlock grinned. "I'm going to the crime scene-"

"Alright," I said interrupting.

Sherlock gave me a look. "And we are going to break into the police morgue,"

"Alright- Wait what?" I stopped, grabbing Sherlock's elbow. "You can't be serious!"

"I thought that was one of my many faults," He muttered. "Okay John. What is your problem this time?" He didn't really care, but I could tell he was trying.

His cold green eyes flickered dangerously, observing my posture trying to get a read off my body language. I folded my arms defences up. "The problem is, Sherlock," I seethed. "Is that you break in to public places, you steal personal items from officials, you lie, cheat and you save no regard for those you might hurt,"

Sherlock frowned. "You never complained about my-"

"Complain?" I asked. "I never complain. This is the first time I have ever complained to you! If I tried complaining you would ignore me… Like you are doing now… Sherlock! Listen to me…" I sighed as he stared down the hall. "You're distracted, why are you distracted?" I looked down the corridor. "What is it?" I asked.

"There was a shadow," Sherlock said. "I wouldn't mind it but if they work here, why not stay in the light where they can see?"

I rolled my eyes. "This is what I'm talking about! You never listen,"

"That's because these conversations bore me," Sherlock snapped. His cold demeanour had slipped slightly and he looked frustrated. "Now, come along. We have a former volunteer who has developed schizophrenia, at least a dozen murdered prostitutes-"

"A dozen?"

"Please let me finish,"

"Right," I muttered. "Sorry,"

"An ancient Egyptian symbol meaning power or dominance, a poison I can't trace and I can't think!" His last three words ended in a shout. He kicked at the wall angrily. I jumped back. I had never seen him like this before. He sighed looking at me silently. He straightened his suit jacket and shirt, before closing his jacket.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Fine," He muttered angrily. "I need coffee, let's go,"

**As ever, comments and such are well appreciated. Thank you,**


	6. Not Coffee

**Alright, the first part of this chapter is not really about the case, it kinda delves into Sherlock's past. I am going to write drabbles on that, but just so you know and don't come after me with a great big knife. Pace will pick up in the next few chapters.**

**Anyway, I'm seeing a lot of subscriptions and such, but I really prefer getting your reviews. I need to know what you think and such. I want to make this fanfiction for all you brilliant amazing Sherlock fans. Thanks, **_**Sirona x**_

Yep. We were definitely not getting coffee. Sherlock led me down the streets passing several shops that sold late night coffee. At each one, he stopped, stared, sighed, shook his head and carried on. After the third time I grew quiet annoyed.

"Where the hell are we going?" I asked, grumpily.

Sherlock didn't answer. He paused for a moment, pulling out his phone. A few impatient beeps later and he took off again, this time turning right towards the Thames. "The Victoria Embankment?" I asked quizzical. "Sherlock, what-"

Sherlock put his finger to his lips, telling me to shut up. I fell silent and followed him down by the river. "Sh!" He muttered.

"What?" I asked. Was he in one of his moods?

"Shut up!" He snapped.

"I never said anything!" I complained.

"No, but you were thinking it and it's distracting,"

I sighed and put my hands in my pockets watching him carefully. "Why are we here?"

"Shut up!" He gave me a look. "Sorry, right." He pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to me. I flicked through the photos. Sherlock sighed. "The girl died at approximately 11:31pm." He said. "Which can't have happened,"

"And why not?" I asked. "She's dead isn't she?"

"Anderson may be thick, but let's give him so credit. I think he can tell when someone is dead." Sherlock said. "It's a lot more subtle,"

"Really, what?" I asked.

"Phil." Sherlock replied.

"Who?" I asked. "Another old friend?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Far from it," He said. "He's an old colleague," He sighed, rubbing his hands moving off. I stared after him before jogging after him.

….

A grubby, thin man, who looked remarkably like Robert Carlisle with mass facial stubble that had attacked his cheeks and chin stood by the wall. Leaning beside a large bit of graffiti artwork that said something ridiculous like "stink". He wore a thin red checked shirt and a dirty white t-shirt. He was smoking next to a trolley filled with bin bags. He looked up as he saw me and Sherlock approached. He smiled and let the cigarette to ground.

"Sherlock," He said. "It's nice to see you again after all these years," He lit up another cigarette. I could see that it bothered Sherlock slightly. He waved the smoke away, pursing his lips slightly. "Need a new fix?"

I looked over at Sherlock. He obviously did not think that this was the best idea that he ever had. "Could we not talk about that please?" He asked.

Phil shrugged. "Who's the dish?" He asked.

"Never mind that," Sherlock muttered. "Did you see anything here tonight?"

Phil shook his head. "Nope,"

"Why not? You see everything here,"

"You sure you don't need a fix? You seem to be missing things,"

"You think I can only work when I'm high?"

"Oh, honey," Phil said. "I know you can't think as clearly when you're not off your head,"

"Double negative," Sherlock muttered. "So who are you playing now? The gay Phil?"

"Tossed out by my father when he found out I was in love with another man," Phil said dramatically. He laughed haughtily. "It brings in the money,"

"We're getting off topic here," I interrupted. "Right, did you or did you not see anything here tonight?"

Phil gave me a look. His eyes dark. "Why? What happened?"

"Murdered prostitute," Sherlock supplied. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about it, would you Phil?"

Phil said nothing. He licked his lips, taking a long drag of his cigarette. "How dare you," He said darkly, suddenly cold. "How dare you even suggest…" He looked away.

"Sorry," Sherlock muttered. "Well?"

Phil sighed. "Are you sure-"

"I don't need them!" Sherlock replied angrily. "Now what did you see?"

"Nothing, well… Two policemen passed around…. 10:30, I think. I don't know, I don't own a watch," Phil shrugged. "Nothing else,"

"Nothing suspicious?" Sherlock asked.

"Like I said; two policemen. The bastards almost took my trolley away,"

"What were their names?" I asked. "Maybe we could track them down and question them. They might have seen something,"

Phil sighed. "It was dark, I didn't see their faces. They said they worked on Lestrade's team. A PC Tyler and a PC…. Erm…."

"It's alright, don't strain yourself," I said. "We'll get Tyler's colleague,"

Sherlock looked back at his former friend. He sighed.

"Are you in pain again?" Phil asked. "Cause I could easily-"

"No!" Sherlock replied. "Look, I appreciate your help. But I don't want to talk about the past."

"Still always on the clock," Phil shrugged. "What else do you want me to say?"

"I need information," Sherlock said. He pulled out his little black notebook and pulled out a piece of paper. "Find out what you can about this,"

Phil looked at it. He sighed. "Wow," He muttered. "Alright, as long as I get some money,"

"I'm not buying anything off you," Sherlock retorted.

"Never said you needed to," Phil replied. "I just like the money,"

"We're a bit strapped for cash ourselves," I replied. "Whatever we can spare, we might be able to get to you,"

Phil looked me up and down, he nodded. "Thank you," He turned back to Sherlock. "What do you think? Is he a keeper?"

Sherlock didn't reply. "Thank you Philip, I look forward to seeing you again,"

"No you don't," Phil smiled.

"No," Sherlock admitted. "I really don't," He shook his old friend's hand. Phil pulled him forward into a bone-crushing hug. Sherlock shoved him off. He straightened his suit. "Bye," He muttered, striding off, leaving me with Phil.

I smiled. "Are you sure-"

"I used to be Sherlock's assistant. I don't lie to him, ever." Phil said. "Go, otherwise he will get angry,"

I nodded. "Alright, nice meeting you."

"Likewise,"

….

I caught up with Sherlock a few minutes later, sitting up against a wall. He was breathing heavily, his arm resting against the crook of his elbow.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?" I asked.

He sighed and looked up at me. "I hate meeting past acquaintances,"

I sat beside him. "Is that what you do then? I asked. "When you've grown bored of us, when we outgrow you, you just leave us to become menaces to the community?" Sherlock looked over at my, his eyes drooped. "What are you doing anyway?" I asked, grabbing his arm.

"Nicotine patches," Sherlock replied, silently.

"You've upped the dosage," I observed.

"No," Sherlock replied. "There are three on there,"

"Yes," I replied, I indicated to his arm. "But you keep it in the triangle shape, easier to maintain. But there is the mark of you using a fourth patch to create a diamond shape. I.e, you've upped the dosage,"

"You're getting good at this," He observed.

"You were on drugs?" I asked, this was a rhetorical question. Somehow, I already knew he did them and I had always been suspicious.

Sherlock sighed. "I guess there's not much point hiding it," He said. "Yes, I was,"

"Why?"

"Got bored," Sherlock shrugged.

"Phil asked if you were in pain…?"

"I, like you, have been in wars. Perhaps not as violent or as well known, but, wars nonetheless. I've had a tough life," He supplied. "And, it's best kept for another time." He scratched his forehead. "I don't like this case, John." He said. "And not just because it's opening doors I'd rather have locked forever. This, person… They're smart. Smart enough to go undetected for a while now. I don't like it one bit,"

"You'll figure it out," I reassured him. "You always do," Sherlock leaned back wanting to say something he really couldn't admit. I sighed. "So… How did Phil become a drug dealer?"

"Again," Sherlock replied. "A different story, one I wish not to drag out," He stretched his legs standing up and wiping his jacket down. I picked myself up and looked around.

"So, crime scene," I asked.

"Crime scene," Sherlock grinned.

It was a quick walk, well for Sherlock anyway; I lumbered behind as always, trying to keep up with his long quick strides. He occasionally slowed down but quickly sped up again when he got a flicker of excitement. We reached there in minutes. About 100 yards around was cordoned off to the public. Donavon stood waiting at the tape her arms folded.

"Hello Freaks," She greeted with her usual snarky tone. "Lestrade said you would be arriving soon, I never expected you to be late though,"

"We took a detour," I said following Sherlock under the tape and towards the scene.

Sherlock walked up to Anderson glaring in his face. "Why did you move the body?" He demanded.

Anderson sighed and folded his arms. "Common decency? To get forensics? To identify the mode of death? Any of these ring a bell? We got all we could from her body,"

"I needed to see it," Sherlock snapped. "There are some things that are in plain sight, but you, Anderson, your tiny little mind could never comprehend."

"And you could?"

"Of course I could you idiot! Have you not seen me work?" Sherlock asked. "Oh shut up, you're distracting me. Right,"

He shifted his jacket behind him and bent down along the ground and wall. I folded my arms watching him go about his work. He looked carefully at the thin line indicating where the woman lay beforehand. He worked quietly and quickly. He clicked shut his small magnifying glass. It was a cliché that he owned one, but it helped. He rubbed something between his fingers.

"Cigarette ash," He muttered. "Was she a smoker? No, don't answer that. The murderer would have been too clever. He wouldn't leave any DNA lying around. Clever. He didn't even walk on the grass. He stayed on the tar."

"How can you be sure that it was a he?" Donavon asked.

"Just agree with him," I said. "It makes sense, but he needs to think,"

Donovan shut up quickly, watching my friend work. After a few minutes he stood on his feet, frowning slightly.

"Got anything?" I asked.

"Not much," He replied miserably. "I would have more information, if someone didn't move the body!" He stared pointedly at Anderson.

Anderson rolled his eyes, not caring. Sherlock sighed. "I need to see the body,"

"You can't until forensics are done," Anderson replied.

"Well who's fault is that?" Sherlock said. "Yes, yours!" He sniped.

"Sherlock," I said. "Calm down. You're gonna give yourself a heart attack,"

"Physically impossible!"

"It's an expression," I replied. "So, what did you get?"

"Girl is approximately 5ft 3'', she was wearing at least 4inch heels. Working along with BMI, I would say she's roughly… 9-10 stone, size 12. Her shoes are the wrong size at least a few centimetres too big for her. She couldn't walk properly, her heels dragged on the tarmac,"

"How could you-" Donavon asked.

"Because, the paint from the heel has scuffed slightly. It's small, but it's there," Sherlock indicated slightly. "And don't interrupt, it's rude. Now… She cut herself slightly as she fell, there's blood stuck on the tar. Not much, though." He sighed. "I need to see that body!"


	7. Distractions

Sherlock watched carefully as John distracted the police at the reception desk. He carefully unlocked the door with Lestrade's stolen key. Doing this countless times before, he managed to get in quickly and effortlessly. He stole a glance at one of the security cameras. He sighed, took off his leather gloves and continued down the corridor till he found the elevator. He nodded at the police officers who were already inside. One of the looked vacant, the other looked confused. Sherlock gave them a great big grin, before hitting the basement floor button. The elevator jolted and began to rumble downwards.

There was a small ding and the doors opened smoothly. Sherlock stepped out, his hands clasped behind his back as he strode lazily down the corridors. He found the familiar room and opened the door. Several bodies lay on metal slabs, waiting to be examined. He checked the charts trying to find the correct one.

He looked at her. She was actually quite pretty. He pulled off his jacket and set about his work.

….

"So, I said to the barmaid, 'Listen, I don't need to be harassed after a long hard day of work'," I said, making it up as I went along. The policewoman looked up at me with bored eyes. "And well… I…"

"Sir, is there a serious complaint?" She asked.

I smiled, trying a bit of bravado. "Why, yes," I said, leaning on the desk putting on the sex appeal. "I wanna know why people have never said what a dish was working at the desk,"

She rolled her eyes, showing off her ring. "I'm engaged," She said. "So get out and stop wasting my time."

"Alright, alright," I said. I glanced at the door. "I'm gone!" There was a buzz against my chest as Sherlock texted me.

_Will be a while. Get coffee.  
SH_

I sighed, getting rid of the message. His messages never filled me with comfort. Coffee was his way of saying, "I might get caught, best make a back up plan". Well. Maybe not exactly that, but he did that once before. I stuffed my phone back into pocket and stepped outside.

The London air was brisk this time of day. People set about getting their work and school and so on. A bunch of school girls passed, all giggling. One of them, a platinum bleach blonde, kept her eyes on me as she passed. Her friends told her off. I rolled my eyes but ultimately felt flattered. I smiled and crossed the street to a Starbucks.

I ordered an espresso and a BLT sandwich, whilst paying my phone began to ring."Shit," I muttered, almost dropping my coffee. I pulled it out and put it to my ear.

"_You're friend Sherlock Holmes is a menace to our streets," _Came a voice. I frowned. The voice sounded as if it had been put through a blender.

"Hello?" I asked. "Who is this?"

"_Doesn't matter, get your friend Holmes away from the case."_ The phone went dead. I checked the number. It was withheld. I tucked my sandwich in one of my jacket pockets and headed back to the police station.

The policewoman at the desk saw me and sighed. "What do you want?" She asked dropping her pen and pulling off her glasses.

"Hi," I said smiling nervously. "Um… This might not be on any importance… But how long would it take to trace a number?"

The policewoman sighed. "If it is a standard landline it can take up to five minutes. A mobile number is harder to trace and if the number is withheld it can't be traced using our technology,"

"Right," I said. "Okay never mind," I began to move away. Frowning I turned back to her.

"What now?" She asked.

"Jeez I thought you guys were meant to be friendly." I said. I pulled out my notebook and pen. "Can you tell me who was working Victoria Embankment last night? I know a PC Tyler was on beat, but who was their partner?"

The policewoman frowned. "Do you mean last night?" She asked. "The two policemen who found the murdered body?"

"They found the girl?" I asked. "Not important, no. Yes… Um… Their names?"

"I can't release that," She replied.

"It's not important," I said hastily. "I'm just curious,"

"It is important, and you're not just curious," She replied. "Now, unless you have a valid reason for inquiring, get out,"

I sighed. "My friend, Sherlock Holmes, he's helping Lestrade with the murder inquiry. We need to know their names,"

The policewoman looked up at me. "Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"You should," Came a voice. I looked up; Sherlock strode out of the door a small grin on his face and tucking something into his pocket.

The policewoman frowned. "Have you been in there the whole time?" She asked.

"All night, working with Lestrade," Sherlock said yawning pathetically. She bought it though. "John, it doesn't matter. I have Tyler's number,"

"You found him?" I asked.

"Her," Sherlock corrected. "Tyler is the female partner. Our dear Phil isn't that specific when he comes to his police officers." He leant towards the policewoman at the desk. "By chance, would be able to tell Lestrade that his team is useless, Anderson is particular,"

"Get out," She said.

"With pleasure," Sherlock grinned. "Come along John,"

I sighed and followed him out of the station. "What you find?" I asked as he began striding down the street in no particular direction. He paused for a moment, before reaching his hand into my pocket and pulling out my sandwich. "Oi!" I complained. "I paid for that,"

He bit into it nosily spilling out mayonnaise. He offered me the rest of the sandwich, in which half was missing after he wrapped his big mouth around it. I waved it away. "What did you find?"

Sherlock wiped his mouth with a napkin before answering. "Have you got any coffee?"

I frowned. "No," I flung the near fill cup into the bin. Sherlock said nothing. "What did you find?" I repeated.

"Nothing much," He replied. "Most of my assumptions were already correct. God I hate Anderson. She is roughly 27 in age. She has one child, probably a son that is under 6 years old. She has the same mark on her ankle, but the killer was in a hurry this time, scared of being caught. The cut isn't clean. It was cut into the skin by a small centimetre knife, perhaps a craft knife. The killer would have chose it because it offers more control…. Why I don't know… Unless…." He paused. "Of course!"

"What?" I asked.

He began to walk again. "So simple. I didn't see it because they were beginning to die! Oh, he's clever. I love a murderer who knows what he's doing."

"Are you saying that they weren't dead as the guy carved his… Symbol thing into their ankles?" I asked. "They were still alive?"

"Barely, drowsy from the drug or poison or whatever he used to kill them with-"

"You haven't figured that out yet?" I asked.

Sherlock turned to me, walking backwards as he talked. "I'm working on that. It will come to me,"

I sighed. "Continue,"

"The point is, it would have hurt. No matter how drugged up they were," Sherlock said. "He doesn't go after them because their easy…. Well maybe he does, but that doesn't matter. He's after the pain. He wants to make them hurt, perhaps the same way that he's been hurt…. Curious… I wonder…"

"You know, in another life you would have made an excellent criminal," I said.

"Have you paid attention to me?" Sherlock asked.

"Do you pay attention to me?" I retorted.

"Doesn't matter," He waved the comment away. "What were you saying?"

"That you would have made an excellent criminal."

"Oh we know that," He replied. "Wait… What? No… Yes… Mm… What was I saying? No don't answer that, it's not important," He began to stride away.

"Sherlock!"

"What?"

"What… The… Hell… Is… Wrong… With… You?" I asked.

He chuckled. "You know what? I'm not quite sure." He stopped again. "Oh! Oh! Oh! That's how he did it! Ah ha! I have you! Yes! That must be it!" He reached into his pocket and dialled a number. "Lestrade? No, don't speak…. No…. Shut up! I'm talking! I know how they died…. What? You're joking? No…" He sighed. "Fine, I'll be right there." He switched it off.

I raised an eyebrow. "What he want?"

"The college guy with schizophrenia has supposedly," I could hear the tone of disbelief in my friend's voice. "Confessed,"

"And you don't believe that,"

"It's too systematic to be someone who is mentally ill," Sherlock said.

"Can't you just accept that police did their job without your help?" I asked. "Or is that too hard for you,"

Sherlock began to pace. "Over half of who the police lock up are completely innocent. It's basic fact-"

"Well not to the general public," I said.

"The general public are idiots. Murderers and the police are smart… Ish… Well, the murderers, if they have any brains, will stop after someone is convicted and avoid suspicion. Police do quick, they don't do thorough,"

"Why do you do that?" I asked.

"Do what?"

"Attack everything with such cynicism?"

Sherlock stopped, frowning. "What do you mean?" He asked.

"You know what I mean," I replied.

Sherlock sighed. "If I lower my expectations then I see the world more clearly," He said simply. "I thought that after your tour of Afghanistan you would understand," He checked his watch. "I need to go and talk to this guy, see if I can get anything from him. Why don't you… Look up the girls. Get histories and such. I need to know as much as possible,"

He ripped a page out of his notebook and crumpled it into my hand. He tightened his scarf and took off, leaving me on my own. I sighed. "Yeah, sure... Like I have nothing better to do."

** l feel like I'm wasting my time and energy typing these words but; Reviews and comments are welcome.**


	8. Clean

Sherlock sat across from the twitching man. His nails were unclean and he was in need of a shave and a shower. Sherlock folded his hands over his lap, staring intently. He motioned for Lestrade.

"Can't we give him some haloperidol?" He whispered.

Lestrade sighed. "We already have,"

"Damn," Sherlock leaned forward. "I don't think you did it," The man gave him a look. Sherlock gave a little grin. "James, is it James? You look like a James… "

"Keith," The man said. "Keith Green,"

"I was close," Sherlock shrugged. "I've been told that you hear the voices of the angels, is that true?"

"They speak to me! Tell me all sorts of things," Keith whispered tapping his left temple.

"What kinda things?" He asked genuinely interested.

"I killed them,"

"Did the angels tell you that?"

Keith nodded.

"Well do you remember killing them?" Sherlock asked.

Keith frowned perplexed. He inclined his head to the left as if someone was talking to him. Sherlock sighed, stood up and faced Lestrade. "Are you sure we can't get anything for him?" He asked. "He's making no sense!"

"I thought you would have like the whole no sense thing. I thought you could have made sense out of the chaos," Lestrade said. "You like the crazy,"

"Of course I like them," Sherlock muttered angrily. "They're fascinating. But I know he didn't do it,"

"He confessed,"

"He's mentally ill!" Sherlock replied. "People who can't make sense of the world do crazy things! Why do you think we have religious people?"

"Hey, come on that's not fair," Lestrade complained.

"Oh so you believe a great big man with a white beard sits and waits for us when we die?"

"Well, no…"

"So why are you insulted by it?" Sherlock asked, confused.

Lestrade sighed. "Never mind." Sherlock and sat down.

"Well Keith," Sherlock said smiling. "Do you actually remember killing the women?"

Keith's frown deepened. "I… Don't… Know,"

"A psychiatrist is on their way," Lestrade said. "Can't we just wait till they come?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I guess not,"

"If he is innocent then we are putting his mind through mental torture," Sherlock said quietly. "He's already in enough pain,"

Lestrade folded his arms. Sherlock leaned forward. Keith was scratching something into the table in front of him. Sherlock watched fascinated. He picked up a name. Keith's nails began to dig into the table. It must have hurt him as he winced. But he kept driving the name into the wood regardless. He was young, barely out of his twenties and obviously a good man.

"Who's Anne?" Sherlock asked.

"Anne?" Lestrade frowned.

"Shut up,"

"Sorry,"

"Who is Anne, Keith? Who is she?"

Keith looked away. Lestrade sighed. "Alright Sherlock, what do you know that you're not telling us?"

Sherlock looked up. "I am shocked. How dare you accuse… Yeah, alright… Keith here was helping prostitutes rehabilitate themselves into the world when he witnessed something traumatic."

"But he has schizophrenia-"

"Honestly Lestrade, have you never read a book?" Sherlock asked. "Keith probably always had the condition long before the event. He probably already knew that the voices in his head weren't his own. But it wasn't that bad. He could still function in the modern world. He most likely has the relapsing and reoccurring one. Blast, I can't remember the name given to it… I don't know what he saw," Sherlock stood up. "Find Anne. I want to talk to her."

"Where are you going?" Lestrade asked.

"Nowhere," Sherlock left.

….

Bloody Sherlock Holmes and his bloody stupid ridiculous pompous hair. Curse the day he ever finds… Well anything really, I thought bitterly as I trawled through all the documents he had left in his room. There was a lot. Sherlock never cleaned his room if he could help it. Therefore there was a lot of crap to get through. I was under the impression that Sherlock never slept and if he did it wasn't a comfortable sleep. His bed, a small single bed, (they still make them?) was covered in piles of paper, photos, books, bit's of food, the odd sock and a large selection of chemicals that had leaked causing the fabric of the sheets to dye a nasty yellow colour. I was almost certain that he kept the vials open on purpose. I moved some folders finding cigarette butts and used nicotine patches. I was actually slightly relieved when I couldn't find a marijuana bong.

After about half an hour I got fed up of trying to work out which were recent files and which were files from past, I gathered up all that I could find and brought them down to the living room.

Sherlock was sitting on his chair stroking the strings of his violin. He looked up at me. I pushed the files down hard on the desk, trying to catch my breath.

"Did you find anything?" He asked a small smile playing on his lips.

"No,"

"Pity,"

"Because I was too busy trying to find the bloody files!" I said exasperated. "Sherlock, how can you live like that? Do you know your chemicals have dyed your bed-sheets yellow?"

"I know; an experiment of mine. I'm wondering if they will dissolve through if I leave them for long enough," He smirked.

"When we are through with this case," I said haughtily. "I am giving you three bin-liners, a pair of yellow washing up gloves and a big hamper of Dettol and leaving you to clean up that dump!"

"Since when did you morph into my mother?" Sherlock asked.

"Your mother would be granted more respect from you." I muttered. "You are getting a filing cabinet so after this case we're going to Ikea! Who's Irene Adler?"

Sherlock's head turned sharply. "What did you say?"

"You're getting a filing cabinet…?"

"No, after that,"

"I found a file saying Irene Alder on it,"

"Ah, old case. One of my personal favourites,"

"Old girlfriend?"

"Hardly," Sherlock replied.

"Gonna tell me about her?" I asked.

Sherlock said nothing for a few seconds. He gently plucked the strings of his violin. "Err… No,"

"Well, get rid of it," I sighed giving up. "It needs to go,"

Sherlock nodded, not really listening to my complaints. He plucked a few strings then stood up. He picked the files from the desk and began to stick the photos onto the mirror. He frowned slightly, not liking what he saw. I joined him and looked at the victims. All ranged from an innocent 18 to a less than innocent 30 years.

"Why the ankle?" Sherlock muttered.

"Beg your pardon?" I asked.

He ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't understand why they would have done it on the ankle," He said. "I mean, there are far better places to make a mark of recognition… The neck for example. It would have hurt a lot more,"

"Nah, too near the jugular," I said. "If they wanted to cause a slow painful death, cutting the neck wouldn't have helped,"

"But they're smart, John," Sherlock replied. "They would know where to cut… I don't understand,"

"Maybe…" I sighed. "Maybe they didn't want to become associated with vampires,"

Sherlock looked up. "Vampires?" He asked.

"Oh god, don't tell me you've never heard of a vampire!" I exclaimed.

Sherlock chuckled. "I always loved Bela Lugosi's portrayal of Dracula," He shrugged. "Christopher Lee was too much hammer horror and Gary Oldman… Well… I thought at Mina falling in love with him was not in keeping with the book,"

"Oh thank the lord," I said. "You're not completely ignorant of modern society,"

Sherlock had nothing to say to this. He was staring intently at the photos as if willing the girls to leap from the frame and shout who killed them. "Did you find out much about them?" He asked.

"I had Lestrade e-mail us details about each of the girls," I said, taking a large wad of paper from the top of my laptop. I pinned the right information to each photo of the victims. "Most of them were not high class. Some came because they were escaping some sorta abuse from former lives; others apparently got the dream wrong. They never really did anything with their lives,"

Sherlock watched carefully as I attached the details. He read them silently trying to draw up a mental story in his head. "Did Lestrade say anything about forensics?" He asked.

"The girls are clean," I stated simply.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowed.

"I mean," I said. "That there was not a trace of murder on them. Lestrade said himself that it was like they just dropped dead for no apparent cause. No poison in the stomach lining, no skin… Nothing,"

Sherlock sat down his fingers pressed together. "This is certainly most perplexing…." He muttered.

I frowned. "People still use that turn of phrase?" I asked. Sherlock glanced up at me, an eyebrow raised.

"When did they stop using it?" He asked.

"About 100 years ago,"

"Ah," He fell silent again.

I sat opposite him. "You said earlier that you knew what poisoned them," I said leaning into the sentence to make it sound more like a question. Sherlock said nothing for a few minutes. He sighed.

"There was a rat poison in the American market. It was virtually undetectable because it would leave the victim's system about an hour after the system stopped working," He said. "It was pulled off the market in about 1980 and production of it ceased,"

"So…"

"I think the killer is making his own batch,"

"He made his own batch of an infamous American rat poison to simply kill prostitutes?" I asked. "Sorry, this just sounds rather dumb."

"Dumber that say he managing to find some retiring fool from the factory and getting him to make it?" Sherlock asked. "I know Americans are not the sharpest crayon in the box, but come on John,"

I pouted. "I guess your way does sound a little better," I said.

"The thought is…" Sherlock muttered. "How would he get the proper ingredients? More importantly… How would he know how to mix them? Those are the questions…" He looked over at me. "Don't you have work?"

"I took a personal day,"

"Of course you did… Weren't you meeting Sarah for a drink tonight?"

"Shit," I stood up and ran for my coat, almost tripping over the coffee table. Sherlock grinned pleased slightly as I made a mad dash to the door.

"Phone," He muttered.

"Shit," I said again, grabbing my phone from Sherlock's palm. "What time is it?"

"Have no idea," Sherlock said. He kicked off his shoes and strode towards the sofa. He plopped himself down and closed his eyes. I glanced at the clock whilst straightening my collar. I must have taken a lot more time trying to work my way through Sherlock's room. He must have thought the same thing because he began to smile. Either that or he was thinking about getting stoned while I was out.

"Don't do anything you'll regret," I said, grabbing my keys.

"You're taking a very long time for someone who's late for a drink," Sherlock muttered. "Anyone would think that you didn't want to leave,"

"Trust me," I said. "I'm leaving," I slammed the door behind me leaving Sherlock to his thoughts. Probably not the best idea I had ever had.

**Thanks for all the support! As ever I appreciate comments.**


	9. Drag

**Sorry about this chapter - it was written really late the day before I went back to school so... Yeah...**

Sherlock leaned back on his chair breathing in the cigarette smoke emitting from his ashtray. He pressed his hand against the crook of his elbow where three nicotine patches were stuck to his skin. He was thinking quietly. Nothing made sense. How could there be nothing on their skin? How was it even possible?

He breathed deeply, lost in his thoughts; his lips quivering. He sat up suddenly, rubbing his back as he did so. Shaking it from his thoughts he ignored what his body was trying to tell him. He stood up over the coffee table making his way to the mirror where the case was pinned up in pictures. He stared at them for a long moment willing his mind to work.

Sherlock stumbled into the bathroom to the medicine cabinet grabbing a packet of Paracetamol. He tipped a couple capsules and downed them with mouthwash. He stared at his own reflection for a moment.

"Sherlock?" Called a voice.

Sherlock sighed, switching on the taps, splashing his face with cold water. He patted himself dry with a fluffy towel before re-entering the living room. His brother stood at the door, his eyes scanning over the mess that his little brother had left. His mouth curled into a knowing smile as Sherlock sat down.

"Well, this is certainly… Not a surprise." Mycroft said. "What will John say when he finds out you were smoking?"

"I wasn't smoking Mycroft," Snipped Sherlock. "Get your facts straight first,"

Mycroft said nothing as his brother pressed his hand against his head. He tapped something on his PDA and sat opposite him.

"Now," He said. "Mother will be most displeased if you speak to me like that,"

Sherlock frowned. "Speak like you belong to this century," He said. "It gets really annoying when you don't,"

Mycroft chuckled. His eyes scanned over the photos. "Ah, a case? Of course, that would be why you are so… wound up?"

"You know it is," Sherlock said.

"I wish I could help you-"

"What do you want Mycroft?"

Mycroft chuckled. "I thought you would never ask," He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. "Items from my work have been disappearing rapidly for over six months now. I want you to investigate,"

"Have you not considered that the office supplies were simply taken by your secretary?" Sherlock asked.

"I did consider that," Mycroft said. "I even fired her. Turns out she wasn't the culprit."

Sherlock winced. When Mycroft fired someone… It wasn't a simple task that left them on payroll for a few weeks. It was quick and usually involved target practice. "All for simple stationary?" He asked. "Mycroft, power has gone to your head,"

Mycroft smirked a little. "It wasn't as simple as a stapler, Sherlock," He said. "Whoever it was stole vital items that I would rather no civilian had their hands on,"

Sherlock sighed, picking up his violin. "Why can't you get one of your… Spy fellows to do it for you?" He asked.

"I don't trust them," Mycroft replied. "Besides… We're far too busy to deal with such trivial manners,"

"And you think I'm not?" Sherlock asked.

"I'll pay you,"

"Don't care,"

"Are you sure?"

"Positive,"

Mycroft chuckled again. "I cannot wait till you tell John that you turned down money because it might be trivial,"

"You said it was just trivial," Sherlock replied.

"For me, yes." He stood up. "Goodnight, Sherlock," He paused at the door. "Air out the room, I passed John in the Taxi upon arriving here," He left.

Sherlock did nothing for a few seconds. He leapt to his feet and staggered over to the window shoving it open. He grabbed the ashtray pushing the cigarette butts into the toilet before flushing it. He grabbed one of John's cleaning products before spraying it around the apartment.

…

I closed the door silently behind me. "Mrs Hudson?" I called.

"Ah, evening dear," She leaned forward to give me a hug whilst pulling off my jacket in the same moment. "How was your evening with your date?"

"It was good," I replied. "How's he doing?"

Mrs Hudson shrugged. "Been silent most of the evening. His brother was here for about 5 minutes. Nothing important."

"Thank you," I ran up the steps to the apartment. "Sherlock?" The stink that met me at the door was unbelievable. I almost gagged. Sherlock was lying on his back, on the sofa; his eyes were closed. He appeared not to have moved and I would have believed that he hadn't except I hadn't left the bathroom light on when I left. Sighing I switched it off.

"You've been smoking," I said.

Sherlock gave a little grin, his eyes still tightly shut. "John please don't make grand assumptions out of such little details,"

"Why not?" I asked, opening the rest of the windows. "You do it,"

"That is because I have the skill to do so," He muttered. "You don't."

I folded my arms.

"Don't look at me like that John," Sherlock said. "It's greatly distracting."

"So… Did you smoke?" I asked.

"Of course not," He muttered. "I left the cigarette in the ashtray and it burnt out."

"Why?"

"I needed to think,"

I sat on one of the chairs picking up a piece of paper that he had dropped. I read it carefully for a moment, realising that it was all chemicals. "Is this the list of chemicals that someone would need to make the… rat poison?"

Sherlock frowned, his eyes still shut. "I beg your pardon?" He asked.

"You've written a list of chemicals; I assumed…" I let my voice trail away. "Never mind, not important,"

Sherlock's eyes shot open. He stood up suddenly leaping over the coffee table in that annoying manner. He grabbed the paper from me and read it silently. "You're assumptions are wrong, John. As always. Did it not strike you odd that my handwriting was different?"

I shrugged. "I thought you had gotten my hint that you're writing was bad and you had been trying to fix it,"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mrs Hudson told you that I was visited by Mycroft, did she not?"

"Yes-"

"Then why couldn't you assume that it was his handwriting?" Sherlock snapped.

I said nothing. He was in one of his moods again. Thankfully this didn't include throwing the toaster out of the window as he did the previous week. He stared at his brother's handwriting carefully before pinning it to the mirror.

"Why'd you do that?" I asked.

"I think it's connected," He muttered. "Mycroft came to me today asking for his help. Things had gone missing and he was eager to get them back. I told him to piss off; that I was too busy to deal with his problems. I never thought," He ran his fingers through his hair, staring at the collage of photos, paper and such that was stapled to the mirror. "Who would have access to them? What would be the operative goal in these murders?"

"You said pain," I said. "You said that the murderer likes to see pain,"

"Ignore what I said,"

"What?"

"Ignore it. I was wrong,"

"Really?" I asked. "Sounds right to me," Sherlock turned to give me a look. "Right," I muttered. "Whatever you say,"

He didn't reply. He stared, unblinking at what he saw before him. He shook his head sadly and turned to me. "How was your night with Sasha?" He asked.

"Sarah," I corrected.

"Whatever," Sherlock said. "Was it a good night?"

I frowned. "You really want to know?" I asked.

"Not really, but the most mundane might spark something," He said. "Well?"

"Well nothing," I said. "We went out for a drink had some food and went to the cinema,"

"What did you see?" Sherlock earnestly asked.

My frown deepened. "Um… That new Tom Cruise one,"

"Was it any good?"

"It was better than what I expected,"

"Did Sarah like it?" Sherlock asked.

"I think so… She laughed."

"Did you kiss?"

"W-what?" I asked dumbfounded.

"Too personal?"

"A little,"

"Right,"

"Men don't usually talk about that sorta stuff,"

"Really? Why not?"

I shrugged. "We just don't,"

Sherlock was confused at this. Again it was his upbringing that made him amiss to these things. He knew he stepped on some boundaries and quickly shut up.

"Spark anything yet?" I asked as he began to pace around the apartment.

"No," He muttered. He bowed his head on his chest, his hands clenched behind his back. This was a stance I knew well. He wouldn't arise from this for a while. I tapped my knees stretching my legs onto the other armchair to create a bridge. A few minutes passed between us.

Sherlock stopped. He sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Go to bed, John," He said. "I'm gonna be at this for a while,"

I stood up, nodding. "Okay," I said. "Goodnight,"

"Mm," Sherlock sat down, legs crossed, his fingertips pressed together and his eyes closed.

**Please review! I appreciate it!**


	10. Innocence

**I'm evil. Sorry. Mwhahahaa… The plot indeed thickens!**

I knew Sherlock had been up again all last night even though he promised he would try to get some sleep. Dark circles encased his usual bright green eyes and he was paler than normal. He had changed into a different suit to make the effort to look as if he had got a good night's rest. He even yawned when I entered the room; pretending to be refreshed. I didn't buy it of course. I sat opposite him handing him a cup of coffee.

He nodded in thanks, smiled but said nothing.

"Were you planning on going to bed at all last night?" I asked.

Sherlock looked up from his cup evidently shocked that I figured it out. He smiled slightly.

"There is no fooling you, John," He said. "Your skills are definitely sharpening."

I ignored the comment because one; it wasn't true and two; I was not completely bought into his comments. "It doesn't take a genius," I said taking a drink of my own coffee.

Sherlock smirked.

"Figured it out yet?" I asked.

He shook his head tiredly. "I need you-"

"To do something?" I finished. "Aside from going to work and earning the rent?"

Sherlock licked his lips and sighed. "Apart from that," He said. "I need you to visit my brother,"

"Why?"

"Just go to him and ask him if you can see the tapes from the nights everything was stolen," Sherlock said. "And you must ask which security guards were working those nights."

"Well, what are you going to do?" I asked.

"I'm going to see Lestrade and…" His voice trailed off. "I don't actually know." He shrugged. "I'll think of something."

"Good to know that you have a plan," I said. I saw a stack of paperwork by the coffee table. "What are those?" I asked nodding to the stack.

Sherlock turned quickly. "Those… Are the police reports from the officers who were first on the scene," He brightened up. "I can talk to them… Maybe they might know something!"

"Maybe," I muttered, taking another sip of my coffee. "Sherlock are you sure Phil didn't-"

Sherlock turned sharply with a furious look etched on his face. His lips contorted into an angry snarl. "Phil is one of my oldest companions; I have known him for years. He is not capable, let alone smart enough to commit murders,"

"He was your friend," I said. "For all we know, he might have gotten better at hiding things from you,"

Sherlock shook his head angrily. "No," He said. "I trust Phil with… Well not my life exactly…" He smirked.

"Do you trust me with your life?" I asked quietly.

Sherlock stared at me for a moment. He nodded slowly. "Yes,"

I smirked. "Good to know,"

"You asked,"

"I certainly did and now I'm thoroughly regretting it," I replied. Sherlock chuckled. His phone began to buzz. He pulled it out of his suit jacket and pressed it to his ear.

"Sherlock Holmes," He said. "Lestrade? Yes. Of course… No… Maybe. Never mind. I'll be there in a few minutes," He ended the call and looked over at me. "I have to-"

"I know," I said. "I heard,"

Sherlock leapt up from his chair and pulled on his coat. "Will you do it for me?" He asked.

I sighed, nodding slowly. "Of course," I said. "Let me just-" He was out of the door before I finished my sentence. "Call the office," I muttered picking up the telephone and pushing speed-dial.

….

Keith was less distracted today. He managed to focus entirely on Sherlock and Lestrade who sat opposite him. He was worse in looks but very much mentally intact. His twitches had ceased so that was something.

Sherlock shifted slightly pulling at the cuffs of his shirt from underneath his suit jacket. "So Keith," He said smiling. "How are you today?"

"F-fine," Keith said, he began batting around his left ear muttering; "Go away, go away,"

"Mm," Sherlock said. "Let me ask you a question,"

Lestrade sighed. "Really?"

"Is that not what we do at police stations?" Sherlock asked. "Mm, I thought that was general procedure," He turned back to Keith. "Can I?"

"Can you what?" Keith asked.

"Ask you a question?"

"Wasn't that a question?"

"That's not an answer," Sherlock said.

"Oh," Keith said, slightly down-trodden. "Yes,"

"Alright," Sherlock leaned forward, his fingers locked and elbows resting on the table. "How did you kill them?"

"I killed them," Keith said. "I took their souls away."

"We know that," Sherlock said.

"No we don't!" Lestrade hissed. "How could you possibly know that? I thought we concluded the other day that it can't have been him or were you just yanking my chain?"

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "Did you find Anne yet?" He asked.

"No-"

"Then do not question me on my methods," Sherlock blazed. "The best way to understand the insane is to play along with their delusions; therein the truth lies!"

Lestrade leaned back annoyed, his arms crossed and his eyes glazing. Sherlock leaned forward again. "Well Keith?"

"I killed them-"

"We know that," Sherlock said soothingly. "I just want to know how,"

"I crept up with behind them and took a knife and I slit their throats… No! No! I didn't. I poisoned them… Made the mark on my – their- ankles… Did it with a craft knife I did… I hurt them and took their hair…" Keith said.

Sherlock leaned back satisfied. "That, Detective Lestrade is your answer," He said smugly.

Lestrade frowned looking at between the psychopath and the loony. Right now, he wasn't sure which was which. "What?" he asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes with a disappointed smile. "Oh goodness me, Lestrade," He stood up swiftly and left the room. Lestrade smiled nervously at the schizophrenic then followed Sherlock out of the room.

The young detective was trying to make himself a coffee from the machine in the corner of the office. Lestrade watched him struggle for a moment before hitting one of the buttons and letting the murky liquid drip from the nozzle.

"You don't know how to work a coffee machine?" He asked.

Sherlock straightened blowing steam from the mug. "It has gotten way too complicated to make a coffee. What ever happened to a good old fashioned kettle?"

Lestrade didn't answer. "Gonna explain?"

Sherlock put down his coffee. "Didn't you hear him? He changed his story half way through. He went from brutally slitting their throats to something as peaceful as swimming in a lake… It's a metaphor, Lestrade!"

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "I never said a thing,"

"No but you had that annoying look on your face," Sherlock snapped. "His thoughts are too scattered. They can't be because he's been given anti-psychotic meds to combat that." He said. "Too scattered to be his own; he was therefore told by someone to do it."

"Where did he get the idea to 'slit their throats'?" Lestrade asked.

"Oh he was probably involved in another murder," Sherlock said waving the thought away. "Not directly at least. Don't worry about it."

"O… K," Lestrade nodded. "That makes… No sense,"

"It's not supposed to, it's a schizophrenic,"

"He," Lestrade corrected.

"Whatever,"

"So…"

"Don't ask me any questions, I'm still working through it," Sherlock said. He sniffed his coffee screwing up his nose. "The coffee here is disgusting." He threw it into the bin and clapped his hands together. "Now, let's find out who this Anne is, seeing as you haven't even bothered,"

…

"Yeah, we get a lot of weirdo's trying to get in here," Alistair, or Alis as he liked to be called (!). He rolled lazily in the chair towards the twenty screens. He nosily chewed on his gum as he looked up the correct video tapes. "These are the tapes from the days that the stuff was stolen,"

He handed them to me. "So… Is you like personal friend's with Mr Holmes?"

"Mm?" I asked. "Yeah, we live together,"

Alis raised his eyebrows. "Really? Man that is well sick!"

"No, no, no, no!" I said. "Not like that! We're just flatmates,"

"Mr Holmes has a flat? I thought he lived in that manor place…"

"Manor place?" It took a moment to click. "Oh you mean Mycroft,"

Alis frowned. "Who else would I mean?"

"His brother," I said.

"He has a brother?"

"Obviously he's not very talkative about his social life," I muttered putting the tapes in the rucksack I nicked from Sherlock's room – believe it or not he owns a fair amount of camping equipment. "So um… Is there a schedule for this room?"

Alis twirled around in his chair. "Yeah," A few minutes passed.

"Well?"

"Oh you want to see it?" He asked. He pulled down a laminate copy and handed it to me. I could tell it had only been laminated after hundreds of coffee spills and snack crumbs being left over it. Obviously not Alis' idea judging by the state of his clothes.

"Sure you don't need this?" I asked.

"Nah," Alis said bits of food coming out of his mouth as he chewed at a cheese sandwich. "We know our rota like the back of our hands." He noticed a little bit of dirt on his wrist; an old ink stain. He began scratching at it with his dirty nails. His face screwed up in concentration; it would have been amusing if I could see it but his messy blond dreadlocks blocked the view.

"Okay," I pulled out a notebook. "Okay go through a basic night,"

"Meh," Alis shrugged. "Not much happens. Every night or so the police come in to check on things. They're great with that. One comes in here, talks to me or one of the others while the other walks through the halls making sure everything is right,"

"That's every night?" I asked.

"More or less," Alis shrugged.

"Okay," I made a note. "Names,"

"I don't know,"

I dropped my hands. "You don't know their names?" I asked.

"Not really,"

"Useful," I said. "Anything else?"

"Yeah," Alis leaned forward. "What's Mr Holmes really like?"

"I mean is there anything else you can tell me," I clarified.

"I thought it was answer a question ask a question," Alis said confused. "Were those like questions before?"

"Wow you catch on," I said. "Okay, I think I've got all I can from you,"

Alis shrugged. "Whatever man," He put his headphones on began to headbang. I sighed and pulled out my phone and dialled a number.

…

"Hello?" Sherlock answered. "John, how did it go?"

"_The guy is an idiot,"_

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked.

"_No the security guy,"_

"Alistair? Oh of course he's an idiot. What you find?"

"_Not much, police come around and… Well like I said; not much, but I've found blocks of black in the tapes,"_

Sherlock's gaze was caught. A young police officer; the girl that John distracted at the desk was talking to Lestrade. In her hand she held a small plastic bag.

"_Sherlock?"_

"I'll call you back," Sherlock said pressing end.

Lestrade noticed that Sherlock had seen them. He told the girl something and took the plastic bag from her then marched over to Sherlock.

"You were wrong," He said.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"He killed them all," Lestrade said. "PC Sievewright found this at Green's flat," He thrust it into Sherlock's hands. Sherlock gazed at the contents of the bag. Inside was a tangled mess of dyed, natural, curly and straight hair. "You said so yourself, hair missing from each of the victims,"

For the first time in a while, Sherlock was speechless. He stared at the hair completely dumbfounded. He blinked up at Lestrade.

"Face it," Lestrade said. "You were wrong. Green is the murderer."

**I hope I don't need to remind you that reviews are appreciated!**


	11. Exhaustion

**Again, I come to the conclusion; I am evil. Mwhahahahaha**

Sherlock came back to the flat in a foul mood. This time, instead of shooting V.R into the wall (he told me it was a mark of respect for Queen Victoria – I have no idea why he would do that) he had decided it would be a lot more fun to take apart every electrical piece of equipment just to see how it works. After getting frustrated with trying to figure out which wire meant which in the microwave, he almost tried to throw it out of the window. I managed to stop him just in time to read our insurance policy. Finally I gave up. We had no cover if some curly haired idiot took it apart. It didn't say that. I just thought it would be a lot more relevant if I referred to him in that way. So I let him throw the microwave out of the window.

"Jesus fucking Christ," A voice called from below. I shoved my head out of the window, looking down to see an old couple walking their dog.

"Sorry," I called.

"It's all right hon!" The woman cried, waving. "We understand domestic disputes!"

I sighed, closing the window. I was too fed up and tired to argue. "Sherlock,"

He looked up from his new task – trying to put the washing machine back together. "Yes?" He drawled.

"Look, I know you're in a bad mood, and that's fine! You're allowed to be," I replied. "But can't you do something a little more constructive and a little less destructive,"

"No,"

"Alright then," I said. "Let me go take out Home Insurance,"

"You do that,"

I sighed sitting down watching him patiently. "Are you sure you didn't miss anything with Keith?"

Sherlock gave a haughty laugh. It was probably meant to be booming, loud even. But it wasn't. Days without R.E.M sleep, proper food and so had driven the life-force out of him. He probably knew this but he continued to focus on his new work. He gave an angry growl in frustration.

"What is it now?" I asked.

"How is it children in Asia can create these things but I can't work out what the hell I'm doing?" He said.

"Um… Firstly because you've destroyed it beyond all recognition, secondly you weren't made for making electronic components for washing clothes, thirdly-"

"How many reasons do you have?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Thankfully just the three, now don't interrupt," I snapped back at him. "Thirdly you have been working flat out for three days straight. Please, Sherlock I insist you get some sleep!"

"Sleep's overrated," Sherlock grunted.

"But your mind isn't," I said standing up taking the screwdriver from him. He glared at me. "No, Sherlock, I'm not arguing with you," I pointed to his room. "Bed. Now!"

"You sound exactly like my mother," Sherlock sniped, snatching back the screwdriver. "I'm fine. Now, you go to bed."

"No,"

"It wasn't a suggestion," He said grumpily pulling out a red wire. "What do you suppose this does?"

I grabbed the screwdriver from him again. He tried to take it from me, but I threw it out the window, making sure it wouldn't hurt anyone passing by. Sherlock folded his arms staring at me. I raised a finger at him.

"Don't you dare argue," I said. "Go. To. Bed!" Sherlock shifted in his suit then casually kicked off his shoes, lying down on the sofa. I put my hands on my hips. "Bed uncomfortable again?" I asked.

"Like you wouldn't believe," Sherlock murmured closing his eyes. "Don't worry, you can clean it up tomorrow,"

"Why do I bother?" I asked. Sherlock didn't answer. He was either pretending to sleep so he didn't need to answer the mundane that usually kept normal people occupied or he was too involved with his thoughts to even care. "I'm going out,"

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"Need some air," I said pulling on my jacket. Not really truthful, but I had to get away from his insanity for a night at least. It really wasn't doing my health any good.

"Well open a window," Sherlock retorted silently. I sighed, my hand on the door handle. There was no point trying to argue with his logic. I pulled off my jacket and flung it aside, making my way to my bedroom. I could hear Sherlock crashing about, throwing things against the wall. By the sound of it, he had probably torn up most of the apartment. I wasn't in the mood to go and lecture him. He never listened anyway, so what was the point?

I waited for a moment realising that there was no use before making my way up to my room.

Tired from a long day of working and watching Sherlock plot his way to self destruction, I lay on my bed reading over my notes. I had begun a small notebook of my own so that I wouldn't forget the day's occurrences. No matter how much my friend would argue _it is NOT a journal_! I was reading something when I found something odd. On one of the pages I had written something. I leapt up from the bed and ran down to the living room.

Sherlock?" I called. "Sherlock!"

Nothing. He had probably went out to grab a cigarette (I had told him if he dared smoke in the flat again I would take his small set of Victorian medical tools and sell them on ebay) His phone lay on the coffee table, charging slowly. I sighed knowing that I would have to take up the thought myself. I grabbed my jacket made a small note asking him to call me when he got back and rushed off into the night not knowing what would happen.

…

"Just stop here," I said. The taxi driver nodded and turned the steering wheel to the left parking up along side a large row of houses. I gave him a twenty and stepped out into the brisk night. The driver gave me a polite wave and drove off. I shuddered slightly as the January wind ripped through the air. I checked my notebook again and made my way towards Victoria Embankment.

I found Phil sleeping by the wall that we found him leaning against when I first met him. He was sleeping amongst a pile of bin liners. His trolley had been pushed aside and he was clutching a bottle of Jack Daniels close to his chest. He was murmuring under his breath as he slept. I knelt down and shook the drunken man awake.

"Oh fuck off, I ain' harmin' nae on'!" He grumbled. I pulled back, his breath stank worse than Sherlock's bedroom. It tickled the back of my throat making me gag.

"Phil, wake up!" I said, breathing heavily.

"Would ye nae fuck aff?" Phil muttered "I is nae harmin' naebody!" I sighed and took his nose with my middle finger and forefinger, squeezing the nostrils shut. Phil managed to breathe for a moment then his eyes shot open. "Alrigh' you fuckin' win! I'm aff!"

He looked up at me beadily. "Oh... 'lo." He looked confused for a moment.

I sighed. "John Watson," I said extending my hand. "We met the other night,"

"Oh yeah," Phil said sitting up. "Shirley never mentioned yer name,"

"Playing a Scottish guy are we?"

Phil nodded slowly. His accent disappeared as he spoke. "The Scots dialogue is excellent to scare off any kids who come and poke you with a stick,"

"I'll keep that in mind next time I sleep on a park bench," I said sitting next to him.

"Did you find the killer?" Phil asked.

"No… Well… Yes and no…" I sighed. "We don't know,"

"Right," Phil said. "I'm going to take that as 'We, meaning Sherlock and I have not found a killer that matches up to Sherlock's thoughts, but the police have found enough evidence to convict another man, now I'm running around like a headless chicken because he's gone off again,' trust me I've been through that myself,"

I chuckled. Phil raised the whiskey bottle offering it to me. I kindly rejected. "Do you know where he is?" I asked.

Phil shook his head. "If I did know, I would tell you, any friend of Sherlock's is a friend of mine."

"Thanks," I said. "That note that Sherlock gave you the other day…?"

"What about it?"

"Anything, just fill me in,"

Phil sighed, leaning back, holding his drink close. "He asked me to get some information on the symbol left on the girl's ankles. If it belonged to a secret society or something, what else it could mean."

"And?"

"Nothing much yet, it sometimes takes time. I mean we may be homeless but we're thorough," Phil cracked a smile.

"Well what have you got?" I asked. Phil sighed and reached into his jeans pocket, pulling out a slip of paper. I took it from him and opened it carefully…

…

Sherlock checked his watch and looked out of the Taxi window. Streetlights passed him quickly and without forethought. He sighed, leaning back against the glass, his eyes fluttering as he tried to stay awake. His head shot up when he remembered he had forgotten his mobile. The thought lingered in his head for a few moments, then passed as sleep began to attack his mind.

"Oh blast," He muttered, kicking himself awake. He saw the taxi driver frown slightly. He shrugged nonetheless. Sherlock ran his hand over his face pulling at his eyes trying to keep himself awake.

"Where'd you say you wanted to go?" The Taxi driver grunted.

Sherlock gave directions in a weary voice. His head ached. The Taxi driver slowed the vehicle to a crawl and then stopped altogether outside a block of flats. Sherlock handed over money; he wasn't sure how much but he grunted "Keep the change,"

The taxi driver looked remotely pleased as Sherlock stumbled out of the car and over to a familiar apartment. He buzzed the right door. He waited for a moment, his head against the wall. The door opened and Molly peered out. Her eyes raised in shock as Sherlock tumbled headlong into her apartment with exhaustion.

**Reviews are always welcome!**


	12. Meds

Molly shooed little Toby away from the chair so she could sit next to the man she admired and loved. She handed him a cup of earl grey which he proceeded to sit on the coffee table before him. He leaned back his hand against his head. His breathing shallow. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes.

"What are you doing here?" Molly asked quietly.

"Resting," Sherlock muttered.

"Can't you do it back at your apartment?" She replied.

Sherlock looked at her beadily. "What am I doing, Molly?" He asked.

"I'm trying to figure that out myself," Molly murmured under her breath. She took a sip of her tea and shuddered.

"I can't think," He said looking at her. She began to see how tired he must be. His eyes were circled with dark shadows that aged him incredibly. His face drawn and pale as if he was ill and… She couldn't tell, but she was certain that he was thinner. "Something is wrong and I can't think," He said. "Tell me why I can't think!"

Molly sighed. Toby was rubbing against her leg looking for attention. She picked him up and rested the kitten on her lap. She looked at him. "Maybe you're not getting enough sleep," She suggested.

Sherlock chuckled. "That is the same reasoning John gave me," He said. "I managed to stay awake for weeks at a time, not needing sleep, let alone rest… I remember back in university I bet Christopher Tinkleton that I could stay awake for a whole two weeks without food, water or even so much as a sit down…"

"Tinkleton?"

"A nickname he got after pissing his underwear while watching the Exorcist." Sherlock chuckled.

"You're not in university anymore," Molly whispered. She gently rested her hand on the crook of Sherlock's elbow. He looked at her blankly for a long moment. She realised, wide-eyed, what she was doing and took her hand away. Sherlock said nothing. Female contact was one that he had not had in some time. He cleared his throat and looked away pointedly. "Perhaps…" Molly began. She fell silent. "Never mind,"

Sherlock looked up at her. "Perhaps what?" He asked.

"Nothing," Molly replied. Sherlock frowned; he leaned forward and glared at her.

"You obviously were about to say something," Sherlock said. "What was it?"

Molly took a deep breath, scratching Toby behind the ears. He began to purr happily, stretching out on her lap. "Perhaps… Perhaps you have other things on your mind…"

Sherlock laughed. "That obviously can't be it," He looked away nonetheless, contemplating what she had said. He shook his after a moment. He ran his fingers through his hair. He picked up his tea and downed it in one.

"Does John know you're here?" She asked.

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Perhaps I should have left him a note," He said.

"Phone him," Molly said. "I don't mind,"

"Can't," Sherlock shrugged. "I left my phone on charge. It doesn't matter, if John is smart he will stay at the flat," Molly said nothing, she raised an eyebrow. "You're right… It is John,"

Molly smirked and leaned over the sofa grabbing a brick-like phone from the cable. She handed it to him, smiling. "Here," She said.

Sherlock held the phone to his ear and waited for the dial-tone. After about 7 rings and no answer, Sherlock hung up. "He's not answering," He muttered. He dialled John's mobile number. It went straight to voicemail. Sherlock sighed, pressed end and handed the phone back to Molly. Suddenly his mouth went dry. He looked at Molly.

"What's wrong?" She asked.

"Did you just dose me?" He asked weakly.

"Oh crap, I thought I had more time," Molly sprang to her feet; making Toby jump off her lap, as Sherlock began to waver in step. His world went dizzy. He fumbled around trying to grasp her arms to keep himself upright.

"You drugged me…" He croaked.

"Shh…" She whispered. "You need sleep,"

"Knocking someone out is not considered sleeping in the medical dictionary," Sherlock argued sleepily.

Molly sighed. "Well, it's a start." She said. Sherlock felt his world slip away from him. He fell into Molly's arms as the drugs took hold. "Shh," She muttered, stroking his hair.

…

Molly called me. Well, I wasn't sure who it was because I didn't recognise the number. I called back in an instant and Molly answered telling me that Sherlock was at her apartment. She was teary as she told me that she had to drug him to get him to sleep. I was relieved just to know he was (almost) alive and functioning, or at least he would be. I gave directions to the cabbie and we drove silently and seamlessly through the streets of London.

Molly's flat was a tiny little thing sat between a butcher and a quirky antique shop. Before I even began knocking the door, Molly flung it open, her face streaked with tears. She grabbed my arms and pulled me inside.

"I didn't know what to do…" She said, hurriedly. "I knew he was in a bad way… He gets like this sometimes… I had some spare pills in the cupboard… He needs his sleep… And well… I dosed him… Put it in his tea… Not much though and… And… I thought I had more time…" She led me into her living room where a slumbering Sherlock rested on her sofa. Molly had tried her best to make him comfortable by taking off his shoes and his jacket. A patchwork quilt had been thrown over him and a pillow and been shoved under his head. Sherlock sleeping was the most unusual thing ever. I had only ever known him as the eccentric scientist; always moving and never still. Molly broke down again, crying. Pitifully, I handed her a hanky.

"How long has he been under?" I asked. Molly shuddered a sigh.

"… About an hour," She whispered.

I nodded. "How much did you dose him?" Molly didn't answer me. I looked over at her. "Molly," I said. Again, no answer. She had sat down on the coffee table and was shivering.

"He's gonna be so angry with me…" She murmured.

I didn't know what to say, not knowing about Sherlock's temper, I mean, I had seen him mad, but not really out-of-control mad. Carefully, I pulled her up by her elbows. "Could you get me the pills?" I asked. She sniffed and nodded, heading her way back to the kitchen. I stared at my friend for a moment then pulled back the cuff of his shirt to take off the nicotine patches I knew he would still have stuck to his arms. Carefully I peeled them away and drew back in horror.

Sherlock's entire arm was covered in tiny little holes… Puncture wounds where a needle had pierced his veins covered his skin. I didn't know how there could be so many. I then realised the reason Sherlock wore the patches on his arm (aside from the obvious reason of course). I had never considered him to be vain. Alright, not vain in some senses but I never thought he would be so ashamed-

"Found them," Came a voice. I started up pulling the cuff of Sherlock's sleeve back down. Molly didn't need to see that. She looked at me curiously before handing the box to me. I carefully read the back before relaxing.

"He'll be awake soon," I confirmed.

Molly was looking between us. "Oh my god, you're not-" I followed her gaze.

"No," I said reassuringly. "No, we're not. It's okay…"

Molly laughed weakly and fell to her knees, stroking Sherlock's hair as he slept. Her tears explained everything and we sat in uneasy silence for the remainder of the night.

….

Sherlock was barely awake. I pulled him up, supporting him carefully as we made our way to the taxi outside. His eyes gently fluttered as he began to function.

"John," He muttered, solemnly.

"Quiet," I ordered.

Sherlock made no attempt to argue. He slumped against the window. I sighed. "Keith has been released on bail since he is mentally disturbed. He's in some sort of home for the now. I visited Phil again… And…"

Sherlock murmured something inaudible.

"It can wait," I said. We drove in steady silence. Sherlock drifted in and out of consciousness. On the drive to Baker Street I became aware that something was wrong. I don't know what it was. Something in the air I guess. I knew Sherlock would dismiss it, so I shook it away. As we approached Stamford Street though I knew something was wrong and couldn't dismiss it anymore. We turned the corner and I saw the flashing blue lights.

"Stop here," I ordered. Lestrade stood with Anderson sipping coffee. "Take him back to Baker Street, make sure Mrs Hudson gets him through the door."

The taxi driver nodded and I got out.

Lestrade looked up. "Dr Watson," He said. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Indisposed right now," I replied. "What's up?"

Lestrade and Anderson moved aside to show a cordoned off area of the street. A black tarpaulin covered the familiar shape of a body. "Oh shit," I muttered.

"We're not going to be looking for any more evidence," Lestrade said. "Keith is being charged,"

"No," I argued. "Sherlock hasn't solved the case. You are not putting Keith through this,"

"Unless you come up with conclusive evidence that Green is not the killer," Anderson said. "We might listen,"

"Sherlock has some lines of enquiry,"

"Oh damn Sherlock!" Anderson snapped.

"My ears are burning," We all turned to see Sherlock Holmes stumble towards us, clearly not fully awake yet. He looked exhausted but ready to deal with a murder nonetheless. "Thank god you didn't move her yet," He grabbed a pair of latex gloves from a forensics table. He staggered towards the body and leaned down.

"Is he alright?" Lestrade asked.

"No," I replied. "He is seriously wacked out," I made a crazy notion staring at my friend.

"Drugs?" Anderson asked quietly.

"Not exactly," I replied.

"I didn't take drugs, I was dosed with drugs," Sherlock said loudly. "And if you wish to talk about me, please do it respectively out of earshot?"

I chuckled and followed him as he worked around the body. "Anything,"

He nodded standing up. He staggered slightly and I grabbed him, keeping him upright. He muttered in thanks. He sighed tiredly rubbing his eyes. "Okay…"

"Are you alright?" I asked.

"No," He said. He caught my expression. "Oh do you really think I'm alright after I was systematically drugged up by Earl Grey tea?"

"I guess-"

"You guess? You guess!" Sherlock laughed. "I hate being around people," I looked at him, knowing that he didn't really mean what he said. Or at least I hoped he didn't mean it. Sherlock blinked tiredly, taking out his notebook. He scribbled some things down and handed the paper to Lestrade.

The Detective said nothing as he read it. He looked up at the young man and nodded. "Alright, we'll look into it," He then turned to me. "Better take him home," He suggested. "His writing looks bad,"

"His writing always looks bad," I said. "Okay, c'mon, let's get you home," Sherlock nodded not bothering anymore. I knew that once the drugs wore off he would be banging at my bedroom door at some ridiculous hour and dragging me away into the night to solve a mystery.

**As ever I appreciate reviews**


	13. Wounds

As I had predicted, Sherlock was fully awake by three in the morning. He came into my room not knocking of course, because that would be too much trouble for him. Thankfully I was awake doing my paperwork after drinking a ridiculous amount of coffee. When we had returned he had changed into his pyjamas; now he was back in his black suit and dark blue shirt and looked ready to crack on with the case. I sighed, watching him pace.

"I could have been naked," I said.

Sherlock looked at my curious. Not something I would usually say. He blinked and smiled. "But you weren't,"

"That's not the point I'm trying to make here Sherlock," I said.

"I know," Sherlock replied.

"I could have been doing anything,"

"But you weren't,"

"Again the point I'm trying to make-"

"Is irrelevant," Sherlock interrupted. He clasped his hands behind his back pacing slowly. "Now, tell me everything. Tell me what Phil said, talk to me, I need to know. Keith is on bail? Is he being watched? If not I need to know the times he isn't. I also need to know if there was any mistakes? I couldn't see the Was Sceptre… Did you? Her hair had been ripped out like the others… You haven't said anything, why haven't you said anything, I need you to answer me John!"

"You haven't given me a chance yet!" I complained.

"I've given you time!"

"No you haven't," I argued.

"Yes I have," Sherlock frowned. "I've given you ample time!"

"We could spend all night like this," I sighed. "Alright," Pulling out my notebook and flicked to a page. "Ready?" Sherlock didn't reply instead he bowed his head further into his chest. I sighed. "Do you remember the note you gave Phil?"

Sherlock nodded, again saying nothing. I licked my lips and continued. "Well, you asked him about the mark on their ankles. He did some asking about. There is no known organisation that uses the mark as a calling card,"

Sherlock made a motion towards the lamp. "God don't" I yelped. "Let me finish before you start throwing my possessions around the room!"

Sherlock smirked a little, continued to pace but still eyed the lamp. I let out a relaxed sigh. "Okay, no known organisations, but there are a few unknown ones that crawl the streets of London, cults and things. This doesn't belong to a cult, in fact the opposite. Some groups use to show knowledge and power. It's not necessarily a bad thing," I frowned. Sherlock had stopped pacing but he was still deep in thought. I cleared my throat. "Um… Phil found out that there is a group who uses this symbol and work around the Thames area. They are particular about using ankles-"

"Why?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Would you please just let me finish?" I asked.

Sherlock fell silent. "Continue," He said calmly.

"They use the ankles specifically because it is…" I flicked a page. "Because it is believed in reflexology that the ankle especially underneath the ball of the joint, it is said to control the lymph, fallopian and groin. It has particular sexual references."

Sherlock bowed his head further. "What about the hair?"

"Phil said that it was probably planted evidence." I shrugged. "But I don't know."

"A group you said?"

"Yes,"

"Of course, it makes sense," Sherlock muttered.

"It does?" I asked. "How?"

"I'm not sure how," Sherlock muttered.

"Well done, that's helpful,"

"And that comment was subsequently UN-helpful," Sherlock sniped. I raised an eyebrow and he looked at me. "You think I'm going to apologise? Pffh!" He flung up his arms in frustration and sat on the edge of my bed. He looked around curious. "Is that Lavender I smell?" He asked.

"It's potpourri," I argued. "Mrs Hudson says it brings a more sophisticated edge, and it helps me sleep at night,"

"I worry,"

"About what?"

"About you," Sherlock stood up. He began to pace around. He moved silently and effortlessly around the room, his eyes shut tight as he thought. I leaned back looking at him. After a few minutes I began to get pissed.

"Is there a particular reason you're in my room, or is this something that you do to annoy me?" I asked.

"A little of both," Sherlock replied. "I need your ideas, but it is also quite amusing to see you get frustrated."

I folded my arms, closing my eyes for a moment.

"Well?" Sherlock drawled.

"'Well' what?" I asked.

"Give me some ideas!" Sherlock ordered.

"My ideas are usually shit!" I argued.

"They're ideas nonetheless,"

"You know most people would comfort someone if they put themselves down,"

"Why on earth would anyone comfort someone, especially when they're probably right?"

"There is a thing called 'Low Self-Esteem'," I said. "Where people repeatedly put themselves down and actually believe they are worthless,"

Sherlock wasn't paying attention. He was still pacing. "Come along, john, you must have some ideas aside from the obvious; 'eat, poop, sleep, sex and follow Sherlock around like a little sheepdog',"

"I do not follow you about like a sheepdog!" I argued.

"Ideas, John!"

"I have none, Sherlock!"

He sighed and kicked the bed. It must have hurt, but he didn't say anything. He brightened after a moment. "Of course, PC Tyler… John, while I was out of it, so to speak, did you speak to PC Tyler?"

"Um," I flicked a few pages. "No… She seems to have travelled up to Kent for the weekend,"

"Why?"

"I'm not sure,"

"Well, why?"

"I don't know!" I snapped.

"Did you call her?"

"No,"

"Well why not?"

"Because," I said. "Funnily enough she didn't leave a number,"

Sherlock looked at me. He smiled slightly. "Alright, maybe you're not to blame,"

"Thank you,"

"You certainly didn't help, but…"

"Thanks," I said sarcastically. "Good to know you appreciate my help,"

"Did Phil say anything else?" Sherlock asked.

"Um… Yeah, actually," I said.

"What?"

"Phil said that there was something weird about the discovery of each of the bodies," I said.

"What of it?" Sherlock asked, he picked up a piece of paper, reading it silently. He said nothing of it. I cleared my throat.

"They weren't found by members of the public," I said.

Sherlock frowned. "What?"

"They were found either by council members, official workers, civil servants, all those sort of jobs."

"That's… Curious," Sherlock muttered. "That's very curious…" He checked his watch. "Don't you have work in the morning?"

"Why, yes, Sherlock, yes I do," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Then why aren't you asleep?"

"Because I knew you would come bursting into my room when you woke up properly," I complained. "I'd rather be interrupt during something important, than be waken up rudely by an obnoxious twat!"

Sherlock didn't get that the insult was directed towards him. He shrugged uncaringly, shoving his hands inside his pockets.

I tapped my fingers on my knee. "Why are you so ashamed of your past?" I asked quietly. "What could have been so monumentally bad in which you can't tell me?"

Sherlock said nothing he began to pace again. Hi head bent low.

"Sherlock?" I asked.

He thrust his arm out, rolling up his sleeves. He made me face the puncture wounds that had scarred his arms. "What do you want me to say?" He seethed. "Do you think I'm proud of what I have done? Do you think I wear this as a trophy? You should never hear about what happened to me or to the others who I was acquainted with! I am trying to solve a serial murder, John! Your constant questions about my past do not help." He shoved his sleeves down and buttoned the cuffs. "I ask you not to speak about your past; I hoped you would respect me not telling you about mine,"

"Are you ever going to tell me about your past?" I asked. Sherlock didn't answer. I sighed. "Sherlock," I said. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have intervened."

Sherlock nodded, not looking at me. I had never seen him loose his temper with me and to be honest it was terrifying. He was a dangerous man whether he liked to admit it or not. I cleared my throat. "Okay, what do you want to do?"

Sherlock stopped pacing. "Did Lestrade ever find Anne?" He asked. "She could have some answers,"

"This thing is getting out of hand," I muttered. "No, Lestrade is as flummoxed as you or me,"

"Damn," Sherlock murmured. He fell to the bed his head in his hands. He sighed, looking up at me. "I don't know John. I really don't know anymore. I have expelled every resource I have and nothing conclusive has come up. I hate it. I know this much though; Keith has been framed. I don't know how, but he has."

"You'll solve it," I replied. "You always do,"

Sherlock hesitated, he opened his mouth to say something but quickly quietened himself. "What?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Doesn't matter," He jumped to his feet. "I'm going out,"

"Where?" I asked, standing up ready to follow him.

"No," He said. "You're not coming with me,"

"And why not?" I asked folding my arms.

Sherlock bit his lips. "Because you have work in the morning,"

"And when did that ever stop me from coming with you?" I asked.

"You'll get cranky,"

"So?" I shrugged. "It makes for great banter,"

Sherlock said nothing. He looked at me up and down for a moment then nodded curtly. "Very well, if you insist,"

**As ever, I love reviews.**


	14. Scattered

Molly shivered in her seat. In her hand sat a crumpled tissue. She hadn't stopped crying since the nice Dr Watson took Sherlock away last night. Her eyes were red and itchy as she tried to blink away the tears. She looked up at the blurred image of the stranger in front of her. He sat down beside her, rubbing his hand against her back, trying to calm her down.

"I don't know," She muttered. "He never shares any of his cases with me. I just make sure he gets the information he needs; dead bodies and whatnot…"

"Sh…" He whispered. "I'm only asking because he's not the most talkative of men in this world,"

"Don't I know it," Molly muttered.

"You love him don't you?"

Molly nodded.

"You don't want to see him hurt, do you?"

Molly blinked up at the stranger. "Well… Yeah. I mean… I know it's a part of his line of work… And I know he enjoys the rush of terror. It's like a personal high. But… I think he knows I worry… And I think that he enjoys that fact… Are you sure he hasn't told you anything?"

"It's Sherlock Holmes," The man smiled. "I doubt he would tell his own brother what was happening in his life."

"As far as I know, he doesn't," She said. He chuckled. Molly's frown deepened slightly. "Are you sure that he hasn't told you anything?"

He shook his head.

"Oh… Well, how is he? Have you seen him?" Molly asked.

He raised a heavy black eyebrow. "Why?"

"I kinda…" She cleared her throat. "Well… drugged him…"

"Drugged him?"

"Only to make him sleep. He gets like that sometimes and usually just needs some sleep. I've never done it before and well… I knew that's all he needed…"

"I'm not judging you," He said kindly. "And I'm sure he is fine. Now, tell me everything you know…"

…

Alright, folks. I am as confused as you. I leaned back in the cab looking over my notes. They were as scattered as… Dog shit really. That was a rubbish metaphor. Anyway. I'm gonna give you a run down of all that's happened in order (roughly).

Five murdered prostitutes. Each murdered with an outlawed poison that washes out of their system completely after about an hour. On their inner right ankles was a tattoo of the "WAS SCEPTRE". An ancient symbol of the Egyptian's meaning power/dominance. Their hair above their left temple. Each of the girls had been in contact with Keith Green who was brought in for questioning. Sherlock dismissed him as a suspect because of his mental illness, Lestrade ruled him in _because _he was a mental case. Whilst in the sewers; Sherlock found another body, exactly the same – something he got really excited about. And then again when we were at the morgue, another body was found.

However, it couldn't have been possible. Phil works that area and he would have seen something. Another layer to the mystery.

Mycroft had come to the apartment to complain that chemicals were disappearing from his work. He wanted Sherlock to investigate. Funnily enough, the chemicals that were all stolen make the rat poison. We had several hundred hours of CCTV footage to go through. Alistair told us that nothing really turns up except for the police.

"Proof" has been found at Green's home. Lestrade is convinced that it was Green. We had discovered that there were several unknown groups working in London who used the symbol as mentioned above. Now we were on the move again – not sure why, could be going anywhere.

Sherlock leaned back, his eyes closed as he lay against the window of the cab. I finished my notes and looked over at him. "So… Where are we going?"

His eyes shot open. "The lab," He said.

"Okay… Why?" I asked.

"I want to re-examine the bodies. Perhaps take a look at the fibres in the hair, see if I can find something that the rest of them missed,"

"Okay…"

"And you-"

"Oh god,"

"Now, don't judge what I want you to do before I tell you," Sherlock said. "I know you always complain. I don't know why, you seem to enjoy the adventure as much as me."

"What are you? Ten?" I asked. "No one but little school boys refer to things like this as an adventure,"

Sherlock didn't reply to it. He adjusted his gloves slightly. "I want you," He said quietly. "To go visit Lestrade."

"Why?"

"Because, I asked him to trace Anne. So far I have come out fruitless. He has more resources and more time on his hands. He may have something,"

"I see,"

"You're upset?"

"Not really,"

"But you will be?"

"I… Might…"

"Why?"

"Because, like you said, I get cranky,"

"You didn't need to come,"

"Ah, but then you would have gotten cranky,"

"I never get cranky,"

"Oh so, throwing the microwave out of the window is just you showing how happy you are?"

"They're complicated!" Sherlock complained. "I thought I would have mastered the bloody things by now, but obviously not,"

"Obviously," I muttered.

"I'll get it mastered, don't you worry,"

"How many microwaves are we going to go through before you do master it?" I asked curious.

Sherlock shrugged and looked out of the window. The silence was terrifying; I never know what he thinks and frankly, to be perfectly honest, I never want to know what goes on in his weird little mind. The taxi pulled up to the police station and I got out. Sherlock smiled up at me.

"Don't do anything that I wouldn't do," He warned.

"You do nearly everything," I shot back.

Sherlock didn't reply. He smiled crookedly and shut the door behind me leaving me on the kerb. I sighed and shoved my hands into my jacket pockets as the cold wind ripped through the street.

….

"No we haven't found this 'Anne' yet," Lestrade said, striding through the office. "Hayley can you call the Petersons and tell them we found their mugger and they should come to the station to get their phone,"

Hayley nodded picking up the phone.

I caught up with the inspector. "Well, have you been in contact with PC Taylor?"

"Nah, she's got nothing important to say," Lestrade shrugged. He signed something off and carried down the cubicles. "Luke, I need that paperwork done, and I need it done now," He turned saw me and took a step back, startled. "Are you still here?"

"Yeah…"

He sighed. "Dr Watson, I hope you realise that I'm a very busy man-"

"I get that. Sherlock doesn't,"

"Well I'm trying to work several cases at once. Sherlock has the luxury of doing the cases he wants to do when he wants to do," Lestrade said, opening the door to his office. "Now, I'd like to help you, but I have as little resources as Sherlock. It'd be useful if he gave us a last name or something, I mean, there is about several Anne's in this office! It's a very popular name; I think that PC Tyler's first name too. Or is it Anna? I forget." His voice trailed off for a moment so I didn't catch the last part.

"Did his psychiatrist say anything about an Anne?" I asked.

"Nope,"

"Are you sure?"

"Well I could be lying," Lestrade said sitting down and pulling a brown file from one of the drawers. "But her report says little," He pushed it towards me. I flipped it open and read it quietly.

"Do you mind if I give this to Sherlock?" I asked, closing it.

"Nope. Take it. Consider it as a gift," Lestrade shrugged.

"Anything else you might have forgotten to mention?" I asked.

"Trust me, if anything new came up, then I would tell you." Lestrade said, he leaned back on his chair. "Now, is there anything else Sherlock wants? The keys to my car? My wife? Perhaps my pet border collie, he can run experiments on it!"

"No need to get snippy," I said.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Sorry," He muttered. "I'm just exhausted. This case has me working flat out."

"I understand," I said. "Right, I'll be on my way."

….

Sherlock carefully picked up the fibre with tweezers and placed it underneath the microscope. He typed something into the computer and peered at the magnified specimens. His pen brushed across his notebook as he made a small note of his progress and then added liquid iodine.

The hair revealed nothing new. But there was something odd. He magnified it further, enhancing the image on the screen. What was that? Was that cotton? Leather? A leather flake. Sherlock pulled it out with tweezers and put it on a separate glass slate. He injected some dye into it and looked at it through another microscope.

What the hell? The murderer was wearing gloves? For gods sake! Sherlock stood back. Nothing made sense.

**Please review and give me your ideas! I need them badly!**


	15. Shot

Sherlock was waiting for me by Greenwich Park. Judging by his expression, he was not in the best of moods. He was looking up something on his mobile phone. He looked up at me.

"Ah, John," He said. "Find anything useful?"

"No," I said, handing him the file.

"You've just contradicted yourself," Sherlock said taking the file away from me. He stood under the streetlight reading the pages and flicking through the photos.

"Keith's doctor wrote up a report," I said.

"Female, left handed, she did this at five in the morning. Parker ink, ballpoint pen." Sherlock summarised. "She's slightly dyslexic but not so much. She's been working with Keith for nearly two years. She's married, or engaged to be but likes Keith more than her fiancée, and she doesn't like Keith that much. She's planning to leave soon."

"Are you done with her life story?" I asked.

Sherlock smirked. "I thought you would be interested," He said.

"I'm not," I replied. "It gets boring after a while. I don't want to hear how you deduced all that,"

Sherlock silently read the report. His eyes glazed over the page with casual interest. He sighed after a minute and closed it.

"Did you find anything?" I asked. Sherlock nodded slightly. He frowned slightly. "Sherlock?" I asked."What did you find?"

"Nothing much. There were a few fibres that I could link to the killings. It took me forever to find them. On the hairs,"

"What were they?" I asked.

"Leather, or cloth, I need to get them tested," Sherlock said. "I wonder if Molly wants a little job…"

"Oh no, don't you start annoying Molly," I argued. "She has enough to do already,"

"Since when did you start ordering me about?"

"Right, yes… Sorry," I muttered. "Do what you want," I stopped looked at him for a moment. "Ah, I see what your doing," I said. "You just manipulated me,"

"Once again John, your intelligence outstands me," Sherlock muttered, but still with a sly grin across his face. "The guilt trip has always been a personal favourite of mine,"

"Bastard," I muttered.

"Now, now, John," Sherlock said. "No need to swear."

"Shut up," I mumbled.

Sherlock fell silent. The night filled with eerie silence. Sherlock seemed to enjoy it for a moment. He closed his eyes listening to the sounds of the city. He looked relaxed for a moment.

"Listen," He muttered. "Listen, John…"

And I did. "What?" I asked. "What do you hear?"

Sherlock's eyes shot open. "That is the sound of life. Every child being born, every grandmother dying, every teenager listening to their music, every laugh, every cry, everything. Listen to it." He walked slowly revelling in this so-called music. "Sometimes people forget what a beautiful world we live in. And sometimes we forget that this world has the ugliest face of any Jodie Marsh look-a-like," I grinned. "Listen to it, John. It is remarkable."

"Have you been on the wine?"

"Bah! Wine irritates me. I shall easily drink it if the occasion requires it, but not one ounce of it is pleasurable,"

"Ah, you seemed like the type of person who loves wine," I said sheepishly.

Sherlock gave me a side-ways glance one of his eyebrows raised. There was a loud bang. For a moment I thought nothing of it. Sherlock looked wildly around before turning to stare at me. My right side suddenly felt wet. I touched it lightly before realising that it was blood. My fingers trembled.

"John!" Sherlock shouted as I fell to my knees. The pain was excruciating. I pressed my hands against it, trying to clot the blood flow. He crouched at my side, pulling off his scarf. Carefully he tucked it under my shirt pressing it against the wound. "Shot gun, less than two miles radius that way," He motioned behind me. "The bullet's separated. You're gonna need surgery," He pulled out his phone. "Shit, no signal," He looked down at me. "John, I need you to focus, stay awake."

Black was filling my vision. I couldn't concentrate. My breathing quickened as I tried to do what Sherlock ordered. "I hate your line of work," I grumbled.

Sherlock sniggered as he made a tourniquet as I tumbled gently onto the ground. "Yes and you were the one who voluntarily went to fight in Afghanistan,"

I laughed haughtily; it ended with me breathing heavily.

"John," Sherlock said, lifting my head. "C'mon stay with me,"

But it faded away and all I could hear was him calling my name.

…

Sherlock watched as John closed his eyes. He called out for his friend to wake up. It had no affect whatsoever. Sherlock kneeled down. Tucking his hand at the base of John's neck and the other under his knees; with a loud heave he hauled his friend up and staggered off in the general direction of a main road all the time calling for John to open his eyes.

….

There was a loud groan. I didn't recognise it at first. Then I realised it had came from my own lips.

"John?" A voice asked. "John, can you hear me?"

I grumbled unhappily, blinking slightly. A light was shone into my eyes. What the hell? Is that how bad it is when I check reactions in the pupils? Why didn't anyone tell me? I shoved the doctor away.

I heard a sigh. "John, you were shot. You lost a lot of blood; we had to give you transfusions. If your friend hadn't brought you in, you would have been dead in minutes."

I tried moving. There was a numb sensation over my right side and hip. I felt the bumpy bandages. "Where's Sherlock?" I grumbled.

"Mr Holmes said he had some things to take care of," The doctor; a gentle old man, said. "He'll call soon,"

"What kind of things?" I asked trying to straighten up. The doctor pushed me back down by the shoulders.

"Rest," He ordered. "Mr Holmes will be back shortly. I assume he's changing his clothes."

I frowned. "Why would he need to change his clothes?"

The doctor looked over at me, peering over his specs. "Mr Holmes had to carry you to the main road to get a taxi. He carried you into the hospital. He must care about you a great deal."

I didn't know how to react to that. Sherlock had carried me? Dear god, he must have more human emotion than I gave him credit for. A sudden sense of dread washed over me. Sherlock cared little of his appearance. True, he wore a suit but it wasn't because it looked smart. So if he had just had a quick shower and say a change of clothes, then he would be back by now. It takes at least three hours- in my experience- to remove shattered bullets properly. He should have been back by now. The doctor saw my worried glance.

"I'm sure he's fine," He said kindly. "Besides, we are more concerned about you."

"Do you have my clothes?" I asked.

The doctor frowned. "Um… Yes… Second drawer." I leaned over, wincing and pulled out my blood-soaked jacket. I reached into my right pocket and pulled out a ruined black notebook.

"Shit," I said. It was covered in my blood and was falling apart. Parts had been singed by the bullet. Before impact with my skin. I looked up at the doctor.

"Someone got a vendetta against you?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Not until I met Sherlock Bloody Holmes," I muttered. "Can I make a phone call?"

"I doubt there will be any harm." He said gravely handing me the cord phone. I pushed in some numbers and held the phone close to my ear. There were several rings before it went to answering machine. I sighed, pressed end then tried Sherlock's mobile.

Nothing. Except voicemail. And Voicemail dooms us all.

I slammed the phone back into its cradle. The doctor raised his eyebrow. "Not answering," I muttered.

"Right," The doctor said. "Rest,"

I hauled the blanked up to my chin and rested my head on the pillow as I felt morphine flow silently within my veins.

….

Sherlock was indeed covered in John's blood. He didn't care. He didn't care that his scarf couldn't be used. His jacket… Well, his jacket had remained miraculous clean. Thank heaven and all that. He strode along the building tops staring quietly out to where John had been shot. He mimed a gun action. He shook his head then side-stepped left and mimed again. He nodded briskly and bent down looking for something.

There were several things to deduce. Cigarette butts mostly. Sherlock picked one up and sniffed it slightly. For a moment, he was relaxed, realising what he was doing he quickly pulled out a plastic bag and put it in. He did the same with the rest. Perhaps it was all linked….

Sirens passed. Sherlock wanted to follow and see what all the fuss was about. He shook his head slightly.

Something slammed hard in the back of his neck. And Sherlock fell to the ground unconscious….

**MUWHAHAHAHAHAHA**


	16. Guardians

221b Baker street was its usual self. Except for a few small things. For instance; Sherlock Holmes, my somewhat missing roommate was wearing a bumblebee costume and Mrs Hudson was in a playboy bunny… the only way I can describe it is an assault on all that's holy. It's like watching your nan dress up in… A miniskirt and boob-tube.

The phone began to ring. The ringtone funnily enough was "The Circle of Life" from the Lion King.

That's when I realised it must be a dream. Yeah. That's weird. Mrs Hudson in skimpy clothes – perfectly plausible. Sherlock buzzing around the flat like an angry bumblebee was definitely a possibility. But my ringtone being something from a Disney movie – no way.

I rolled over on my side, left I should point out, the right was still exceedingly painful after being shot at. The hospital was beside my pillow in case Sherlock wanted to reach me. I picked up the receiver and held it to my ear.

"'Lo," I said sleepily. "Sherlock, that you?"

"_We did warn you. Now, if you really care about your 'friends' welfare, I suggest you tell him to back off this case,"_

The line went dead. I sat up a little straighter, now fully awake. I dialled Sherlock's mobile. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Four rings… No answer. Sherlock always answers on the first ring whether it be important or not.

I must have slipped back into sleep. I woke up just as the pure morning light coming through the blinds. I blinked stupidly, thinking it was all a dream.

…

He was confused. Really confused. He stood on the pavement looking through his pockets, a deep frown on his thin face. She saw him from a distance, sighed, stubbed out her cigarette and tottered over to him.

"Hello love," She said. "You alright?"

He frowned. "I… I don't…"

"What's your name?"

He looked blankly at her. "It's… um…" He looked down at her. "Where am I?"

"Southbank," She replied lighting another cigarette. "Want one?" She held out the packet. He took one from her and lit it silently. He breathed deeply. "You're name sweetcheeks, you never really said." She smiled.

"I don't…" He sighed.

"Got any ID on ya?"

He shook his head.

"Must have been mugged," She muttered to herself.

"I wasn't mugged," He felt the back of his head, a tiny droplet of blood oozed from underneath his scalp. He frowned. "Say something to me."

"Beg your pardon?" She asked.

"Trust me, I'm smart. Just any random words… They might spike a memory."

"What kind of words?"

"Any!" He barked.

She looked a little affronted. "Alright. Um…"

"Hurry!" He grasped her by her shoulders.

"You're hurting me!" She complained.

"Now!"

"I don't know! Moon, car…"

"Come on!"

"You don't realise how tough this is!"

"Any random word that forms in your head!" He shouted. "I don't care how fucking ridiculous it might be!"

"You don't need to swear!" She shouted back at him.

"Do it now!"

SMACK. She struck him across the face. "Pull yourself together you fucking addict! I was trying to help you!"

Sherlock stood dumfounded for a moment. His eyes lit up. He gave a crooked smile. "I bloody love you," Before she could object he had bent down and kissed her on both cheeks. He dropped the cigarette he was holding and stamped it out with his foot. "Where'd you say I was again?"

"Southbank," She replied confused.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Slight amnesia, don't worry too much…"He smiled. "Nothing important…"

"You never know…"

"Nah… What day is this?"

"Friday,"

"Friday?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah,"

Sherlock stopped thinking things through in his head. He sighed and dug his hands into his pocket. His phone was gone. In fact, everything was gone. His phone, his notebook, his magnifying glass and his wallet were all gone. His pockets were empty.

"I think you've been mugged," She shrugged, taking another drag of her cigarette.

"No. I wasn't mugged,"

"You have, as you put it, amnesia," She said. "You could have been,"

"Then why wouldn't I have defended myself?"

"Well, by the look of you, you're not exactly ninja," She said.

Sherlock looked at himself. "I don't…"

"Shh," She said. "It's okay. What's your name?"

"Sherlock,"

"Weird," She said. "Got any friends that can come pick you up?"

"Ha! As if anyone would want to be my friend,"

"You've got to have someone,"

Sherlock shuffled his feet. "I really don't," He muttered. She took pity on him.

"Where'd you live?" She asked.

Sherlock looked troubled. "I… I don't…"

"Okay…" She said. "I think you need rest. Are you sure there's no one I can call?" Sherlock shook his head. She sighed and looked over at a gang of girls who were watching patiently. "Tell Johnny I won't be back till late,"

"Johnny," Sherlock mumbled.

"Yeah, that's what I said," She replied.

"Nickname for something like Jonathon," Sherlock muttered, his brow furrowed. His head snapped up. "John,"

"What?"

"Call John,"

She sighed and held out her mobile to him. He quickly deducted that she was a recently divorced thirty-three year old, with one son. He shook his deduction away, it wasn't important. He had to work out where he was. He held the phone to his face and slowly typed in a number.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

Four rings.

Fiv-

"Fuck it," Sherlock said snapping the phone shut.

"No answer?" She asked kindly.

"None,"

"Why don't you try his mobile?"

Sherlock opened the phone again. He stared at the buttons but no number came to light. He sighed heavily. "I don't…"

"It's okay," She said, taking the phone from him. "C'mon, you can stay with me tonight while you recover,"

"Thank you," Sherlock mumbled. A thought struck him. "What's your name?"

"Gabrielle," She replied.

Sherlock smiled. She took his hand carefully and led him into the night.

….

Sherlock woke the next morning lying on a bed that was unfamiliar to him. He blinked, looking up at the ceiling. Fluorescent stars stuck to the paint and he concluded that he was in a kid's bedroom.

"Good morning," Came a voice.

Sherlock looked around. At the door was an unfamiliar woman. It took a moment for him to realise who she was and the events that had taken place last night. She folded her arms and walked over to him. "Sorry about putting you in Thomas's bed," She said. "I would have let you sleep in mine while I took the couch but… I had no time to change the sheets,"

"No, no." Sherlock stretched his legs. "Thank you,"

Gabrielle smiled. She took a bundle of clothes from under her arm and handed them over to Sherlock. "Sorry, I know their probably not what you normally, sadly it's the only thing I have of my ex-husband."

Sherlock took the folded clothes from her. "Thank you," He muttered.

"Do you want to give me your clothes to wash?"

"No, I can't trouble you anymore," Sherlock said.

"It's no trouble,"

Sherlock was already pulling on his shoes. "I have to go," He mumbled. He stood up, feeling dizzy. Holding onto the doorframe he breathed slowly.

"You're not going anywhere," Gabrielle said, her hands on her hips. "Sit down," Sherlock obeyed. "Now, let me go make you a cuppa. Get changed and come through when you're ready,"

Sherlock nodded. He was so confused. Since when did he start taking orders? He breathed deeply. His entire body craved something that was unknown to him. He licked his lips and unfolded the clothes.

….

Mrs Hudson hadn't heard from Sherlock either. She wasn't too worried though. She said that he had done this many times before;

"Gone out for nearly weeks on end, doesn't tell me where he's going, oh no, just takes off." She said as I flicked through the paper looking for anything and everything. "Leaves all things on, no note… First time he did that I swear on my life I thought I was going to go insane,"

"Sherlock's lived with you before?" I asked, slightly curious.

"For about a year or so," Mrs Hudson said. "Back when he was just starting out on his detective work. He was as insane then as he is now,"

"You know what, I don't doubt that," I muttered.

"When do they think you're getting out?" Mrs Hudson asked brightly.

"Not sure yet," I shrugged.

"The sooner you're out the better," She said. "Goodness, hospitals aren't what they used to be…"

I frowned. "What? You miss them being filthy squalor places, when whipping was thought the correct method to get rid of chickenpox?"

Mrs Hudson slapped me over the head. "The cheek you have," She said. She smiled nonetheless, I think it reminded her of Sherlock. We sat in silence for a moment.

"You're worried about him," I said.

"Of course I am," Mrs Hudson muttered. "He's a good man," She sighed. "Ah well, you rest. I'm gonna go get something to eat,"

I nodded folding up the newspaper. I looked at the telephone. Sighing , I pulled it forward and dialled in a number. After the third ring someone answered.

"Hey," I said. "Have you seen Sherlock?"

**I hopefully dont need to remid you that I love reviews!**


	17. Missing

Gabrielle struggled into the flat holding bags of shopping. She closed the door behind her and made sure Thomas was in. He was playing with a little toy truck. She called out for Sherlock.

No answer. Gabrielle grew a little worried but it ceased as soon as she entered the kitchen. Sherlock was bent over the counter, his head low as he examined something. The shirt and trousers didn't fit him quite right and it disfigured his slim frame. He looked up as she put the shopping down.

"I see your up," She said brightly. She noticed then what he was doing. "What the bloody hell have you done to my toaster?"

Sherlock looked back at it. "I needed to think." He muttered.

"Oh, so taking apart my toaster is the perfect way to go about it, is it?" Gabrielle asked.

"Don't worry, it's fairly simple to put back together," Sherlock said.

"Only if the person reassembling it is a genius," Gabrielle muttered picking up the pieces of her destroyed kitchen equipment.

"Well…" Sherlock said. "I don't like to brag-"

"Well of course you're a proper genius!" Gabrielle rolled her eyes. "Living room, now. Entertain Thomas,"

"Thomas?"

"My son!"

"Oh…"

"He was at his father's this week and he likes him better than me so,"

"I doubt if that's true."

Gabrielle flushed at the compliment. "Don't start. Go. Now."

Sherlock gave her a quick grin and sauntered off into the living room where Thomas was playing quite contently with his toy cars. Sherlock took one look at them and decided that the cars were accurate models, probably given to him by an older relative. He smiled at the boy as he sat beside him, but he didn't engage in any sort of communication. Instead he stared in front of him at the muted TV – a blasted re-run of that ridiculous X Factor show. Thomas raised the car to Sherlock's face.

"Look!" He cried. "Police! Mee-maw, Mee-maw, Mee-maw!"

Sherlock took the car from the boy, looking at it curiously. Die-cast. Hand-painted. Not a busy man's hobby… Grandfather? No… She's unattached from her parents…. What about her estranged husband's parents? No… Grandparents always seem to get you things you don't want but need. Thomas obviously needed a new pair of trainers. So, someone who values Thomas as a brother.

"Gabrielle?" Sherlock called. "Who gave these models to Thomas?"

Gabrielle stuck her head around the door. "What? Oh! That was Keith. Lives a few doors down at number 15. Loves Thomas as he would a brother. Nice boy, bit weird since his mum died. Always had a vendetta against some things, but he helps Ladies of the Night get back on their feet. Haven't seen him in a while though."

"Keith… Keith Green?"

"Yeah… Y'know him?"

"I need to see inside his flat." Sherlock leapt to his feet then stumbled.

"You okay?"

"Fine," Sherlock muttered, rubbing his head. "Just dizzy. Flat, Keith, now… Do you have a spare set of keys?"

Gabrielle shook her head. Sherlock said nothing for a moment then bounded out.

….

Sabrina pushed a bunch of grapes onto the tray, leaned over and kissed my cheeks before sitting opposite to Molly. She looked confused.

"Who's this?" She asked me nervously.

I opened my mouth to speak but Sabrina spoke for me. She extended her hand over the bed to shake Molly's. "I'm Sabrina," She said, introducing herself. "I'm an old flame of Sherlock's,"

"And old flame?" Molly asked.

"She's a colleague," I reassured her. "Don't worry."

"Well, what's she doing here?" Molly asked.

"I know Sherlock. I know where he haunts. I know where he gets his… Buzz…" Sabrina interjected again. "And I would like to be referred to as if I am in the room with you,"

"Sorry," Molly muttered twisting her hands. She was nervous. Next to Sabrina she looked positively plain and that didn't bode well for her unrequited love for my best friend. I sighed looking between the women, hoping that Sarah wasn't going to come visiting today. I pulled out the sheets of A4 on which I had begun writing notes down again. No hit-man was going to stop me… Unless he missed and did intend to kill me. I shuddered. The thought wasn't particularly nice.

"Sabrina," I said. "Where would Sherlock go?"

Sabrina sighed and leaned back on the chair, revealing a little more leg from her pinstripe skirt. Her blouse edged open to expose a lace red bra. I looked away pointedly and she laughed.

"Oh John," She said, helping herself to a grape. "Why aren't you the sweetest little thing…"

"Answer the question," I said, ignoring the comment.

"After taking you here?" Sabrina asked. "Well, he would go back to the crime scene and try and determine where the shot came from,"

"Then… Why isn't he back yet?" Molly asked.

Sabrina looked over at her. "That's what we're trying to determine, genius,"

"Alright, ladies," I said. "Enough."Sabrina leaned back a smile playing on her face. "Right," I said. "Where would he go after that?"

"If it went all well, then he would have went back to Baker Street to reconvene his thoughts, among other things," Sabrina shrugged.

"We know he's not there," I muttered.

"And if things haven't gone well?" Molly asked.

"He's either dead, in a ditch, off his head on drugs, been kidnapped or has another line of enquiry," Sabrina shrugged. Molly's eyes widened. "Oh, don't worry," Sabrina said, helping herself to another grape. "He's only been close to death, what… Once? Twice?... Maybe a few more than that… I forget."

Molly looked up at me worried. I sighed. "Though that's probably a gripping tale about his detective work-"

"Who said it was detective work?" Sabrina smiled seductively, placing the grape on the tip of her tongue.

"Sabrina," I said. "This is important. Now, I've already tried calling Mycroft, but he doesn't know squat and was not willing to help me unless I had information about the chemicals stolen from his lab,"

"You tried calling Mycroft? Wow, that's stupid," Sabrina scoffed. "You do know about their squabble?"

"Yes, yes," I said. "I get it, it was a dumb idea."

"Have you tried Lestrade?" Molly asked.

"Yeah, but he says he does this more often than not,"

"Then why are you so worried?" Sabrina asked.

"No note, nothing, not even a text." I said. "It's not much to ask for and he knows that,"

Molly and Sabrina said nothing. I sighed and folded the page. "Okay, okay," I said. "Sabrina, try Sherlock's usual haunts call or text me if you find him,"

"Why?" Sabrina asked.

"Well in case you haven't noticed," I said. "I can't go anywhere until I'm discharged," Sabrina snatched the page from me and tucked it into her handbag. I looked over at Molly." Can you go to Bart's and get me the pathology reports for all the murders and nip around to the flat and get the folder resting on the armchair cushion. If Sherlock's there, drag his bony backside in here."

Molly smiled a little. She picked up her bag and coat kissed my cheek and left. Sabrina looked over at me.

"We're you planning on going any time today?" I asked.

Sabrina looked at me for a moment, then jumped up. "Oh, yeah, right," She picked up her handbag a few more of the grapes and left. I sighed and leaned back on the pillows wanting to go out and join them in their hunt for Sherlock.

…

Molly pushed open the door to Sherlock and John's flat. The room was a tip. She had never seen anything so bad. Papers lay scattered across the floor and half of Sherlock's wall display had been torn down. It struck her as odd. Mrs Hudson stood behind her, hands on hips looking at the mess.

"I swear Molly dear," She said picking up some of the rubbish. "That Sherlock will be the death of me."

Molly didn't reply. She didn't know the Landlady all too well and wasn't sure if it was a joke or a rather bleak observation. She picked up a few papers. "I don't think this was Sherlock," She said.

"Well, I'm the only one with a key and I've been here most days… Who could else could it be?"

Molly shrugged. "I don't honestly know. C'mon lets try and find those files." She bent low and scrapped up a few papers.

"I'll go check Sherlock's room," Mrs Hudson said.

Molly looked up. "No! Wait!"

The landlady looked back at her.

"Let me do it," Molly muttered, flushing. Mrs Hudson smiled knowingly. Molly hurried up into Sherlock's and looked around. So… This was were the genius worked. Looked rather… Well… Disorganised. Molly sighed and picked up his pillow, fluffing it up a bit. Slipped between the headboard and the mattress was a beetroot folder. She picked it up and looked inside. Old memory sticks. Perhaps they had something on it. Molly pushed it into her bag and carried on looking for things.

Her heart leapt to her throat. She suddenly became aware that she wasn't alone in the room. Her vision was suddenly blocked out and she heard someone running down the stairs and slamming the door behind them. Molly struggled up, noticing a piece of paper under Sherlock's bed. She struggled up, grabbing it as she did so. Mrs Hudson was beside her in a second.

"Did you see who it was?" She asked.

Molly shook her head. There was a small gash on her forehead. She felt it nervously. Mrs Hudson sighed. "Come on dear," She said. "Let's get a plaster on it,"

….

Molly handed over the piece of paper. I took it, moving slightly as the nurse changed my bandages. I read it silently.

"It was a plan Sherlock had," She said.

I looked up at her. "No, we're not doing it- OW!"

The nurse gave me a pitted look. "It wouldn't hurt as much if you weren't fidgeting," She said.

I ignored her. "Molly, we're not doing it."

"He's right," Sabrina said, folding her arms. "I mean it's never going to work."

Molly's eyes glazed over Sabrina. "Did you actually go out looking for him?" She asked.

Sabrina smiled. "You'd like to believe that wouldn't you?"

"Alright," I interrupted. "I'm fed up of your stupid needless bitching. Sabrina – Sherlock left you, Molly – he's honestly not interested! Now back to the matter at hand!"

Molly looked downhearted. I sighed. "Listen," I said. "I'm sorry, but he said so himself. He's not interested in going out with anyone. Right." I sat up a little straighter as the nurse fluffed up the duck-filled pillows.

"Doctor Ferguson will be here in a few minutes." She said smiling.

"Thank you," I said. "Now, Sherlock obviously hid this plan for a reason. Either he knew it wouldn't work or he was too worried that someone was going to get hurt. Knowing Sherlock it would have been the first option. No, Molly. We can't do this. We need all sorts of things like back up and such. And if it does go wrong there's gonna be an investigation. We can't… We're not- Molly, what happened to your head?"

Molly touched her gash. "Don't worry about it," She muttered. I sighed.

"We can't do this," I said.

"He's right, it's ridiculous," Sabrina agreed.

"But it was Sherlock's idea," Molly complained. "He must have thought it would have a chance."

"I refuse to partake in this," I said. "I'm sorry, but no," Molly bit her lip. "Alright, did you get the folders?"

Molly shook her head. "Someone had already been there and ransacked the place. I got these those," She handed me a beetroot folder. "Memory sticks," She concluded. "Maybe Sherlock saved some things on there,"

"Maybe,"

**Please review. It makes me feel better...**


	18. Plan

Sherlock found the key in minutes. Someone as close conscious as Keith always kept a key at least a foot away from the door. Sherlock opened the door quietly and stepped inside. Gabrielle followed behind him.

"Oh would you look at this?" Gabrielle said looking around the broken room. It had been ransacked by someone. Sherlock looked past the mess, to what must have been Keith's mess. He picked up the table which had been tipped over. The die cast models had been spilled on the carpet. Gabrielle picked a few up. "Aw… He was making toy bus for Thomas. I wonder if there's a note-"

"There's no note," Sherlock muttered.

"How would you know that?" Gabrielle asked, fluffing up one of the cushions and putting it back on the armchair. "Are you some sort of psychic?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered. "There won't be a note because he's not been here for weeks…"

"And how do you know that?" Gabrielle asked, fluffing up a cushion and sticking it on the armchair. "That'll need replaced," She muttered, looking back up at Sherlock she asked. "Are you some sort of psychic now?"

"I just know," Sherlock muttered. "I'm not sure how,"

"Well that's always good." She said. Sherlock wavered as a sharp shooting pain through his temple. Gabrielle frowned. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock pressed his hand against his temple. "Yes… I'm fine…"

Gabrielle moved carefully around him. "You've gone all pale." She said.

"I'm fine," Sherlock argued.

"Sit!" She ordered.

Sherlock obliged. She knelt down and looked carefully at his eyes. "Sherlock," She said. "I think you're in trouble."

…

I let Mrs Hudson help me up the stairs into the flat. I was out walking so that was something at least. But they had told me to rest and not do anything stupid. I knew better than them, the shot barely scrapped my side, as far as I was concerned, I was fine. Sabrina was in the kitchen preparing a cuppa. Molly was away – working I assumed. I knew she'd be back soon. Mrs Hudson smiled, but there was no point. Sherlock had been missing for at least a week, probably the longest he's ever been gone.

Sabrina handed me the cup and sat on Sherlock's favourite seat.

"So…" I said. "Nothing on the streets?"

She shook her head sadly. "I am asking, just so you know. Phil hasn't seen anything or heard from him."

I looked up. "You knew Phil?" I asked.

She nodded. "Yes. Phil and Sherlock were friends when we were… an item."

"Did you actually date or…" I let my question get away from me.

"No we dated," Sabrina said.

We sat for a few minutes in uncomfortable silence. "Are you… Ever going to tell me you're real name?" I asked.

Sabrina smirked softly. "It's Marie," She said.

"Marie?"

Sabrina nodded.

"It's kind of beautiful," I said.

Sabrina flushed. "Thank you." A pregnant pause followed. "John… I know you and I are never going to be the best of friends and its good that you're trying to get to know me – for Sherlock's sake, but it's not necessary,"

"It's alright," I shrugged.

Sabrina pursed her lips. "I've been thinking," She said. "Maybe we should do Sherlock's plan…"

"Are you crazy?" I asked. "No, it's ridiculous. Someone could get hurt."

"Not if we have the police scattered around the city," She argued. "It's worth a try,"

"No,"

"Maybe nothing will happen!" Sabrina said. "I mean it's a big city!"

"We're not doing it," I said. "No, Sabrina. We are not putting anyone in danger."

"Sherlock obviously thought it might work,"

"And he never showed it to us because there was always the idea that it might not work. Sabrina, I don't want to put anyone in trouble,"

"John, we have to do something. We can't just rely on Sherlock, though he is brilliant, I don't think he's coming back any time soon… We need to do something, anything!"

"Why not go through the tapes from Mycroft?" I asked. "They might have something on them,"

"If that was true, Sherlock would have checked the footage, no, this guy – if it is a guy – is smart. Really smart. Smart enough to not get caught by Sherlock."

I sighed.

"John, please," She said. "I hate feeling useless."

I nodded slowly. "I call Lestrade,"

Sabrina breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you," She said. "I think I should do it-"

"No," I said sharply, holding the phone to my ear. "Hello? Yes, I need to talk to Detective Inspector Lestrade… Yes I'll hold." I looked back at Sabrina. "We're getting a copper to do it,"

"Copper's don't know the first thing about being on the streets." Sabrina said. "I'm doing this, John,"

"Hello? Lestrade? Yes, John Watson…" I looked over at Sabrina. "We have an idea and well… It's kinda crazy – yes it's one of his… Alright…" I listed down the details quietly. Lestrade was deliberating it. I could actually hear the cogs in his head working down the phone. Finally he agreed.

"Thank you," I said, pressing the phone down into the receiver. "Okay… We have to go down to the station,"

Sabrina sprang to her feet and helped me up. I pushed her away softly. "I can do it," I muttered. She smiled softly helping me into my jacket. I picked up my walking stick – something I hoped I would never need to use again, but luck of the draw I guess.

…

Sherlock paced up and down the room. Gabrielle sat on the edge of the armchair, Thomas, sitting on her knees. Sherlock's hands were balled into fists as he paced, his nails cutting into his palms. "Say something to me," He murmured. "I need thoughts, ideas… Anything,"

"Sherlock you should rest."

"No,"

"Why not? You've been hurt. You need rest."

"No, I don't," Sherlock said. "I need to think, I need to remember. I need to get back to John,"

"Do you even remember who John is?" Gabrielle asked.

"Of course I do," Sherlock said. "Let me think!"

Gabrielle fell quiet.

"No!" Sherlock cried. "Talk, anything. The stimulus will help recover memories,"

"You have amnesia, it's not a quick fix,"

"I've lost roughly three hours of my life and the important phone numbers and addressed," Sherlock said. "I remember most things,"

"Like?"

"I don't know,"

"That's good,"

"You sound like John,"

"Honey, please sit down and rest. You're worrying me,"

"I'm fine,"

"You're obviously not," She replied. "Why did we break into Keith's place in the first place?" She asked frowning.

"He's connected," Sherlock muttered.

"To what?" Gabrielle asked.

"The case,"

"The case? So… You're something like a detective,"

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

"Then they must know you down at the local police station, maybe they can direct you," Gabrielle suggested.

"I can't go to the police," Sherlock said. "They'll laugh in my face. The great Sherlock Holmes has amnesia! I will be mocked by Anderson for years,"

"Is that what's really important to you?" Gabrielle asked. "You're pride?" Sherlock said nothing, his lips tightly pursed. Gabrielle sighed. "Alright," She said. "Okay," She stood up, picking up Thomas. "Mr Holmes, it has been nice meeting you. But I have to go and meet my mum. I hope you find whatever it is… Maybe your mind, you insane bastard,"

Sherlock nodded. Gabrielle was about to walk out the door. She sighed. "Sherlock," She said. "If you are a detective, wouldn't you have a website? Just type up your name…" She left.

Sherlock sat contemplating what she had just said. He stood for a moment, then leapt across the room to the computer. He hooked up to the internet and hit google. His name brought up a list of results, but he hit the first one. He smiled happily.

Thank the lord for the internet.

….

Sherlock pulled up in Baker street, he got out and stood on the street which had begun to get dark as night descended, the streetlights bathed the road with an orange glow that felt sinister and chilling.

"Oi, fair!" The Taxi driver barked.

"No money," Sherlock said. "Thanks," He slammed the cab door shut and buzzed the door.

"Sherlock bloody Holmes!" Cried a voice.

Sherlock turned to see Mrs Hudson running towards him. Her arms flung around his waist and she hugged him tightly. He smiled. "Mrs Hudson,"

"Where the bloody hell have you been?" She asked.

"Long story," Sherlock muttered. "Is John out of hospital?"

"He's away tonight. Undercover, and all that,"

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, they found you're plan thingy and figured that they should have a go at it." Mrs Hudson said. "Come on, let's make you some tea,"

"Where are they?" Sherlock asked.

"I never said 'they'," Mrs Hudson said confused.

"Where are they?" Sherlock barked.

"The embankment," Mrs Hudson said.

Sherlock breathed for a minute and then took off down the street.

**Please review.**


	19. Poison

We, Lestrade and I, were at the South end of the Thames, camped out in a little Ford Transit. With us were several officers who monitored the sound waves. We could see Sabrina a little away from us, holding her arms as the cold night hit her skin. She was dressed in clothes that would make Katie Price look respectable. Lestrade looked a little worried. She couldn't wear too much wires, otherwise she would stick out like a sore thumb. So she had been kitted out with a small radio and a tiny pistol, that stole away in her handbag.

"You can go home now," He said. "I think we can handle this,"

I looked up, the silence broken. "She's Sherlock's friend," I replied haughtily. "I'm not leaving her,"

Lestrade sighed. "One of our lab technicians found something amongst the hair," He said after a few minutes.

"What hair?"

"The hair found at Keith's place,"

"Oh, right…"

Lestrade gave me a look. "Just because we call Sherlock to help us doesn't mean that we finish with our investigation. We are on the exact same grounds as Sherlock most of the time. Albeit, he might be a little further ahead than us."

"Or a lot further than you,"

"Would you shut up? We are just as smart as him. He doesn't do the paperwork, or support the families or whatnot. He deduces everything at a glance and he can't function in the real world like that. He has to realise that,"

I raised an impatient eyebrow. "Are you quite done?"

The Inspector sighed and pulled something from his coat. "You're becoming more and more like him everyday," He muttered.

I chose to ignore that comment, taking the Polaroid from him. "What is it?" I asked.

"A photo,"

"I got that much,"

"Of polyester,"

"So… Our psychopath killer wears polyester clothes?" I asked.

"Don't be ridiculous." Lestrade said.

"Then what is it?" I asked.

"I actually have no idea, nor to the guys at the labs." Lestrade shrugged.

"Do you think that the murderer planted it there?" I asked.

Lestrade frowned. "Why would anyone do that?" He replied.

"To get caught,"

"Why?"

"I dunno. Applause? Recognition? Or maybe to lead us off the trail…" I concluded handing the photo back to him. "Do you just happen to carry photo's of evidence around with you?" I asked.

"I was rather hoping that Sherlock would be here,"

"If he was, he would have an answer and we wouldn't be doing this in the first place," I said.

Lestrade shifted in his seat. "Yeah… So you really don't know where he is?"

"Not a clue,"

"Now come on John," Came a familiar voice. "I thought you would know me a bit better. I would never leave someone for more than week!"

Lestrade and I turned to see Sherlock Holmes standing at the van door looking at us with a cheeky grin.

…

"Where the hell have you been?" I asked angrily as Sherlock climbed into the van. His clothes had been changed – they were rather unfitting and did not suit his frame. But his coat remained intact. He smiled at me for a moment then turned to Lestrade.

"How long have you been here?" He asked.

"A few hours," I replied.

"A few hours too long," Sherlock muttered bitterly. "Bring her back," He ordered.

Lestrade scoffed. "You can't be serious," He said. "We only just got started!"

Sherlock reared up, standing over the older man. "You will do as I say. Get my friend out of there,"

"But it was your idea!"

"One that I should have destroyed!" Sherlock snapped. "Now, do I need to repeat myself? Get her out of there!"

Lestrade bit his lips for a moment and nodded at two of the officers. They whispered something into the headpiece and one of them; a tall lanky male with matted black hair that poked out from under his cap, got up and went to get her.

Sherlock sighed and sat down.

"So…" I said. "Where have you been?"

Sherlock looked at me. "Oh… Here and there," He said disconcertingly.

"Care to elaborate?" I asked.

"No,"

"Why?"

"Can't remember most of it,"

"Right," I was sure he was lying.

"_Ms Sabrina is fine, walking her back to van now," _Came the officer's voice through the walkie-talkie.

"Alright Myers," Lestrade said. He looked over raising an eyebrow, waiting for Sherlock and I to continue our conversation.

Sherlock said nothing. He leaned back against the wall of the van, closing his eyes. He looked exhausted.

"It's good to see you again," I said.

Sherlock's eyes shot open. He looked at me for a moment and nodded curtly. "Likewise," He muttered.

We fell silent again.

"_Inspector, hearing some trouble. About to investigate," _Came Myer's voice.

Sherlock grabbed the other officer's communication device and spat into it. "Don't you dare leave her," He hissed. "She is at risk if you do,"

"_I'm sorry sir, but there's shouting. I'll tell her not to move," _He said.

Sherlock slammed the communicator down. He looked at us for a moment, wide-eyed, then jumped out of the van and ran in the general direction. I grabbed the other headset and put it on. "What do I do, just talk?"

The officer nodded.

"Sabrina? It's me John… Sherlock's coming to get you. Don't move."

"_John…"_

"It's okay," I said. "Sherlock's on his way,"

"_John… I feel weird."_

"Weird? What do you mean-" I blinked. "Oh shit." I threw off the headset and looked at Lestrade. "Drive now," I said.

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"Drive!" I shouted.

One of the officer's turned the ignition and we sped off after Sherlock.

"_Sir! Ms Sabrina… She… I can't find a pulse. _

_**Please review. Means mucho to me.**_


	20. Sabrina

I have only seen Sherlock Holmes cry twice in my entire life. Today was the first. He bent down over the broken form of Sabrina. His lips quivered as he stroked her beautiful face, pushing her hair away. He watched as the last shine of her eyes disappeared from us. I watched slowly as Sherlock raised his head and looked at us.

"He killed her," He whispered, tears streaking down his face. "He killed her…" He pressed his lips against her cold forehead, holding her closely. For a moment, all that was available to us was the silence. We could hear from a distance the police sirens as PC Myers back up was called. Rain lashed down on us, thick and heavy.

"Sherlock," I said quietly. "I'm so sorry,"

Sherlock looked up, frowning. "Why?"

"It's my fault," I said quietly.

"How the hell is it your fault?" Sherlock asked.

"I shouldn't have let her do this… I mean it was totally reckless…" I said.

"No, I should have thrown out that paper," Sherlock muttered. "It's my fault,"

"Sherlock, no… Don't blame yourself," I said. Sherlock gently rested Sabrina's head on the path. He kneeled watching her for a long moment. "You can't blame yourself…"

"So your solution is to blame someone else?" Sherlock asked thickly as tears choked him. "What would that accomplish? No… This isn't anyone's fault…" He leapt to his feet looking around the area. Anything and everything was being analysed. "John, could you…?"

I sighed and nodded. Sabrina looked so delicate as she lay there. A drop of water sat on her chin. A tiny droplet, no bigger than a bead. I checked her ankle. No mark. Of course not, the killer didn't have time. I frowned. That must have meant that the killer had been watching her the whole night. Which was impossible.**We **had been watching her all night. We would have noticed anyone suspicious.

Lestrade placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He shrugged it off.

"I'm sorry," He muttered, thinking I was out of earshot. "She was a civilian. She shouldn't have been placed in so much danger,"

"You really didn't know her did you?" Sherlock said. "Idiots," He muttered. "Of course she would have wanted to do this. Always trying to prove herself…"

"I'm sorry," Lestrade said.

"Just… Don't," Sherlock said. "John?"

I looked up. "They knew we were doing this tonight,"

"No one knew," Lestrade snapped.

"Well he did." I said. "He knew he wouldn't have time to rip out her hair and what not."

"The only people who knew about this was my team," Lestrade argued.

"Maybe one of your team let slip to someone," I suggested.

Sherlock wasn't listening. He saw Myers crouch away in the shadows apparently distressed at what had happened. He marched over, grabbed the officer by the collar and shoved him against the brick wall. "You shouldn't have left her!" He bellowed. "She's dead because of your incompetence!"

"Sherlock," I said, pulling him away. "No, don't do this,"

He stared furiously into Myers eyes. He let go and looked away. Breathing heavily. "I'll see you back at the apartment," He muttered.

I nodded. "Of course, don't do anything stupid,"

"Kinda limits what I can do," Sherlock replied.

"I know, that's why I said it," I said. "Go,"

…

Maybe I should clarify what happened tonight. I realise now that I've kinda left you in the dark.

Sabrina… I mean Marie Whyte… That was her name… Volunteered to do something that would result in her death.

Sherlock had written out a plan that he thought would work. He didn't show us it because he knew that there was a strong chance of someone being hurt. To summarise, Sabrina was to pose as a prostitute in the district to lure a killer out. She was supposed to call out for us whenever someone got too close or… But something wasn't right. Through the entire evening she never really recorded that anyone strange had been in contact with her. I felt monumentally guilty. I shouldn't have even thought about it. She was dead because of what I had done.

That night, I prayed for her. Revisiting my old Christian roots.

Sherlock might not blame me for it. But… But I did.

…

Sherlock had not come out of his room all day. It wasn't unusual. Mrs Hudson grew worried when he didn't come down. To make her happy, I went upstairs and tapped on the wood of his door.

"Sherlock," I said. "Are you alright?"

No answer.

"Sherlock?" I opened the door and stepped inside his room. It was probably worse than before. Ignoring the smell, I grabbed the sticky note that sat on his bed and read it carefully. In his scrappy writing he had written;

_By time you read this, I'll be gone. Shall text you later. SH_

I sighed and scrunched it up, throwing it onto the bed. I pulled out my mobile and dialled his number. It went straight to voicemail. Damn, Sherlock is good at avoiding people when he wants to. I homed down on the end button and slammed it back into my pocket.

I sighed looking around the room. A tiny photograph album stuck out from underneath Sherlock's bed. Curious, I pulled it out and opened it.

I then realised I shouldn't have.

These were pictures from Sherlock's past. I knew I shouldn't be invading something so private. But… He knew everything about me. I felt obligated to look at it.

Well, he hadn't changed. He was a bit older now but, basically the same. I turned the page. There was a small picture of him and Sabrina – sorry Marie – together. In one photo it was them too side by side, in the picture below that, Marie was kissing his cheek and he showed an expression of pure delight. An expression that I had never seen Sherlock wear. I closed the book and tucked it back under the bed.

I put my head in my hands; feeling so terrible about what I had done. This was my fault.

…

Sherlock moved silently and stealthily through the streets. He was on a mission. His mind set. In his mind a schema was forming.

Who was it?

Why?

The cold wind whipped through London. Sherlock thought. He needed stimulus. He needed something to spark his thoughts.

He needed to talk to Anne. She held all the answers. Maybe she was the murderer! Sherlock's thoughts got away from him. He was being stupid. Anne was a fictional character made up in Keith's delusions.

Then again…

What did Lestrade say? They had several Anne's in the office. PC Tyler's first name was Anne.

This was one coincidence too many and Sherlock hated coincidence as much as he hated leprechauns.

With their silly little hats….

**I needn't remind you that I crave reviews as much as I crave chocolate.**


	21. Connections

It was cold. Colder than Sherlock had ever known London to be. But he strode confidently down the streets a sad twinkle in his eye. He was exhausted and looked as if he was about to drop. His hand grasped around John's phone that sat in his pocket. It was the only thing that gave him comfort in this cold night.

He paused, looking around his surroundings before carrying on down the Thames. Every girl had died around this area and not just because this was where they haunted. It was where the killer lived.

Two officers passed him. It was PC Myers and a young woman. Sherlock contemplated for a moment shouting at Myers, but he couldn't. It wasn't his fault. Myers was tucking a bottle of water into his jacket pocket.

Then it hit him

Of course. It made sense.

Everything connected.

That was it.

Sherlock looked up and raced towards PC Myers. He pulled the man around and punched him in the nose.

…

My phone was missing. Again.

I had torn Sherlock's room apart looking for it - I knew he took it. Instead of finding my phone, I had found an LG Cookie. Not mine, not Sherlock's. I tapped the screen. It was Sabrina's, I knew this because her wallpaper was one of her and Sherlock together a few years ago.

I looked through her messages – nothing interesting. Was it a contract phone? No… I tapped the memos. There was one that was password protected. I dismissed it. Probably dates when she needed to get her nails redone.

The phone rang. "Mrs Hudson? Could you get that please?"

The phone stopped ringing abruptly and I heard Mrs Hudson speaking silently into the receiver. I kicked over Sherlock's bed tipping the mess over.

"John!" She cried. "The mess you've made!"

I turned, she was looking at Sherlock's room. She held the phone in her hand. "What is it?" I asked, sighing.

"It's Inspector Lestrade," She said. "Something's wrong with Sherlock,"

"Tell me something I don't know," I muttered. I took the phone and stumbled down to the living room, clutching my bandages. "Hello?"

"_Get here now,"_

"Why?"

"_Sherlock has gone insane,"_

"He's always been insane,"

"_Would you just get down here? He attacked Officer Myers,"_

"Okay, I'm coming,"

….

"I'm not insane,"

"Sherlock, you attacked an officer!" I replied.

"He had it coming,"

"Sherlock!"

"What? I did what I had to do,"

"What was that?"

Sherlock looked up at me "I kinda… hit him…"

"Yeah, I got as much," I said. "Assaulting an officer is a criminal offence, you can get done for it!"

"I took that wholly into consideration," Sherlock replied, sipping silently on his coffee.

"I don't think you did," I replied, folding my arms. "Can you tell me your reasoning behind it all?"

"He did it,"

"Adam Myers did it? Officer Adam Myers?"

"I know it sounds insane,"

"Did you deduce that on your own or did you need Lestrade's help?" I asked.

"But it makes sense," Sherlock replied.

The door opened and Lestrade stepped inside. "He's not going to press charges," He said. "Thank god," He folded his arms looking at the young detective.

"Don't look at me like that," Sherlock said.

"I assume you had reasons other than pure grief," Lestrade said. "And you better make them flawless otherwise I might have reason to place charges on you,"

"Add them to the list," Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock!" He cried. "Will you please understand the seriousness of this all? I'm sick of trying to explain the complications of the human emotion to you. Now, tell me why you hit him."

"He did it," Sherlock said simply.

"I'll suspend my disbelief for a moment," Lestrade said. "How?"

"Haven't figured it out yet,"

"But you just know it's him?"

"Of course I do,"

"Sherlock!" I said. He looked at me with his sharp eyes. I sighed and tucked my hands into my pocket. "Run us through the reasoning behind the idea,"

"It's not an idea," Sherlock snapped. "It's fact."

"And you always have proof to support fact," I said. "What led you to think-?"

Sherlock sighed. "You, John said yourself in the draft of your blog that you saw a drop of water on Sabrina's chin,"

"Meaning nothing," I shrugged.

"Myers had a bottle of water tonight and on the night he killed Sabrina," Sherlock concluded.

"He might just get thirsty on the job," Lestrade said. "You have nothing to link him to the other murders,"

"Was Myers on beat those nights?" Sherlock asked.

"Most of them are,"

Sherlock smiled confidently.

"No," I said. "This is madness. Sherlock, I think you're just looking for a quick fix,"

"I said so myself. It's someone they would have known, someone they would have trusted even though they are complete strangers, much like the Taxi drivers. We expect them to care for us when we're drunk or what not,"

"Would you listen to what you're saying?" Lestrade barked. "These are my officers you're talking about! If I knew they been committing these acts I would have had them tossed into jail in an instant!"

"But that's the thing!" Sherlock said earnestly. "He's smart!"

"More," I said.

"Beg your pardon?" Sherlock asked.

"Give us some more evidence," I said.

Sherlock looked over at me. "Alright," He said. He dropped his head and began to pace, his hands behind his back. He stopped after a few minutes. "When you were talking to Alistair-" He said.

"Alistair?" I asked.

"Surely you couldn't have forgotten him!" Sherlock said. "Works as the CCTV monitor at Mycroft's institution. Worse bad habits than me…"

"Oh yeah," I said shuddering at the thought of uncut dreadlocks.

"He said that the police come around to help him monitor. One stayed with him in the security room whilst the other passed through the halls unnoticed with a security pass,"

I thought about it for a moment. "Yeah, but still Sherlock," I said.

"John," He said. "I know it was him. It wasn't Keith,"

"You need more proof," Lestrade said.

Sherlock paced for a few more minutes. He stopped. "What was her name?" He asked.

"Who's name?" Lestrade asked.

"The officer that was with Myers tonight," Sherlock said.

"I dunno,"

"Isn't she on your team?" Sherlock asked.

"Sherlock, he didn't come in with another officer," Lestrade said.

Sherlock looked away, his eyes dark. He threw his coffee to the ground and stormed out of the room. Lestrade and I looked at each other for a moment.

"Is the room to Myers locked?" I asked.

"No,"

We stood there for a few more seconds, before bounding out after Sherlock. Lestrade flung open the door and we saw Sherlock pushing Myers against the wall, his nostrils flaring. "Who was she?" He roared.

"Sherlock!" I shouted.

"Who was she?" Sherlock bellowed.

"There was no one!" Myers struggled against Sherlock's strength. "I swear, I was on my own tonight!"

"You lie!"

I grabbed Sherlock pulling him away from Myers. Lestrade helped the officer up. "I swear," He gasped. "I was alone tonight,"

"Sherlock," I said. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock looked over at me. He shook his head. "No… I'm not alright."

**Please review, many and mucho thanks.**


	22. Insanity

"_How are you feeling today, Sherlock?"_

"_Solitary confinement sucks,"_

"_You know perfectly well, it's not solitary confinement. We just want you to stay here until you feeling better,"_

"_I'm fine,"_

"_You were imagining things,"_

"_I dabbled with drugs, I'm always imagining things,"_

"_Have you taken dugs recently?"_

"_Of course not,"_

"_Then what is the other most likely cause?"_

"_Well, there are several possible suspects, but I fear you might have to call in Greg House to figure it out,"_

"_You do realise Greg House is a fictional character, don't you?"_

"_It was a joke,"_

"_Of course it was,"_

"_I am fine, seriously. I know what I saw,"_

"_And what was that?"_

"_It was… It was…"_

"_Sherlock, please, think things through,"_

"_I do, that's one of my biggest things,"_

"_Sher-"_

"_I'm not insane."_

"_I never said you were. The death of your friend can't have been easy on you. Your friend, John, says that you have one of the most brilliant minds of this century. But with genius comes torture."_

"…"

"_Have you ever heard of the term tortured genius, happy idiot?"_

"…"

"_I'll take that as a no. Well I'm not saying you have to give up the things that make you… You per se. But relax, let things go,"_

"_I can't,"_

"_Adam Myers did not kill that girl,"_

"_Fine. He didn't. But will Lestrade please investigate for my sake?"_

"_No,"_

"_No need to be so blunt,"_

"_You're suffering from grief. It's not uncommon,"_

"_Then it is boring,"_

"_So because it's boring, you find no sympathy?"_

"…"

"_Does that mean you don't deserve sympathy for what's happened in your life?"_

"_Don't,"_

"_Sherlock, a part of this grief may date back to your youth-"_

"_My youth has nothing to do with Marie's death,"_

"_No, but it has everything to do with the way your dealing with it,"_

"…"

"_You know I'm right,"_

"_I know I'm right. Myers killed her!"_

"_Now Sherlock, there's no need to-"_

"_Shut up,"_

"_Sherlock, I'm trying to help-"_

"_I don't need your fucking help!"_

"_Sherlock, don't you dare-"_

…

"What?" Phil shouted.

I sighed and cleared my ears slightly. "Thanks for deafening me,"

"I'll kill him!"

"Always good to know,"

"You don't go assaulting the fucking hand that feeds ya!"

"I'm not sure that's the correct-"

"Shut up John,"

"Okay,"

Phil lit a cigarette and began to pace feverishly holding his arms as the cold hit us. A tiny drop of freeze sat on his nostril, he was apparently unaware of it, but it was annoying me slightly . "He's not insane," He muttered, bringing me back to the present problem. "However weird he seems to be, he always has a reason, he's always been like this,"

I said nothing and folded my arms watching Sherlock's old friend move swiftly in the little area that concerned his belongings. That drop was really beginning to annoy me.

Phil paused and looked at me. "Did he give any reasons?"

"A few but they weren't concrete,"

"Have you found that Anne?"

"No she's still up at her mums,"

"Right," Phil said. "She holds the answers, I'm sure of it. Find her,"

"No she doesn't,"

"Yes she does," Phil snapped. "Keith keeps saying that it was Anne who told him to confess,"

"How did you-"

"I have people," Phil said. "Just… Think things through. Maybe that will hold the key," He looked around. "Where is he?"

"I don't want to tell you," I replied. The visit of another old friend could just tip him over the edge. Phil gave me an angry glare. I noticed that he had a nasty cut above his right eye. "Sleeping rough?" I asked.

Phil said nothing but checked the cut. He sniffed at the blood for a moment – I don't know why – shrugged and wiped it on his jeans. I opened my mouth about to tell him that it wasn't very hygienic, but I stopped myself, Phil was one with whom hygiene concerned herself with and it had obviously served him well.

"Find Anne." Phil said. "Or I will and I won't be too nice about it.

…

They opened the door and let me in. The room was dark. In the corner I could see a huddled mass.

"Oh… Sherlock," I sighed sadly. "What have they done to you?"

I dropped to my knees and leaned towards him. He looked up, his eyes reflected the light from the corridor. "Hey," I said.

I reached out my hand to touch his. He looked at me curious for a moment and then crawled away. "No," He muttered. "No, go away!"

I sighed and edged further towards him. He drew back. Carefully, I placed my hand against his forehead, checking his temperature. He blinked looking up at me. He was hot. Perhaps he was getting a fever. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me forward whispering into my ear.

"Check the water!" He hissed. He drew back again, muttering under his breath. I stared at him for a moment. I moved closer to him again and he cried out. "No!"

He crawled away cowering in the corner. With a heavy heart I went towards him again. He looked up fearful. I couldn't recognise him – this wasn't my friend. This wasn't Sherlock. His long fingers outstretched and began creating words onto the wall of his cell. He had slipped so far in a matter of days and I couldn't understand it.

"Water… Anne… Keith… Water… Water… Water…. Something in the water… Poison… Illness… Find her…" Sherlock muttered.

"Sherlock," I said quietly. "You must tell me if this is you acting,"

Sherlock said nothing he was tracing the symbol on the wall, scrapping his nails into it. "Sabrina… Sabrina the trickster… Sabrina the teenage… Teenage… Witch…" He began to rock back and forth booming with laughter as if remembering something. I sighed.

"Okay," I said. "Okay," I stood up, rubbing my knees. "By god, I hope you're acting, I really do. I don't know what I would do without my best friend."

Sherlock said nothing, he buried his head into his arms. A faint;"No" escaped from his lips. I gave him a fleeting look, before wondering if Mycroft had been told. Perhaps not. Or perhaps he had been told but just didn't care. The thought ran through like a shiver. I bit my lips and left, pulling out my phone.

"Lestrade?" I asked. "It's John… I want you to test the water that Myers had the other night. Don't let him know that your testing it though…"

"_You want me to turn against my own officers?"_

"I just… I just want to be sure."

**Yeah, I know… Not the best chapter I have ever written. Ah well. Please Review, Means a lot to moi.**

_HouHo_


	23. Post Blue

**Alright new Chapter, sorry I haven't been writing. For those who know me, please send me messages telling me to get my arse into gear otherwise I will never get it finished and I'll be leaving you on the rope for a while  
Hope you enjoy the chapter, I did write it while I was caffeine deprived and at 3 in the morning.  
Love Sirona x**

For days they came and went. Leaving him in the dark and the cold. Food and water came on a strict timetable and they either left him in the care of someone or they injected something that made him drowsy. He enjoyed the pain of the needle. The drowsiness was pleasing and let him think freely within the confines of his room.

He hoped John had realised…

… Had he left the stove on…?

No…

John is smart…

… Ish…

The drowsiness hit again, pulling him back into the darkness. He ached for the need to stretch his legs… And they were long legs.

The door clicked open and Sherlock looked up beadily. Mycroft walked slowly towards him, leaning down. He grabbed his brother under his arms and hauled him up. "Look at yourself!" He hissed. "You are a disgrace!"

Sherlock rolled his head, enjoying the drugs. He smiled up at Mycroft. "So you decided to come?" He slurred.

"Stop acting!" Mycroft snapped.

"Leave me alone…"

Mycroft stared at his brother for a long moment and then threw him to the ground. He straightened up, pulling at his waistcoat. "John needs you."

Sherlock said nothing but crawled into the corner rocking back and forth. "Sherlock!" Mycroft barked.

"No!" Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft sighed. "I hope to god you're not acting," He said. "For everyone's sake,"

…

"Nothing?"

"Nothing,"

"That can't be right,"

Lestrade folded his arms and nodded at the lab technician who twisted the microscope around to let me see. I pressed my eye against the eyepiece. "Have you got the magnification right?" I looked at the computer screen focusing on the molecules.

"The magnification is right, the science is right… What are you looking for?" Lestrade asked.

"You honestly think Sherlock is mad?" I asked, checking the screen again.

"I always knew he was silently weird. I always knew something like this would happen-" I looked over at him. "Don't look at me like that. I think Sherlock is a great man. But he's mad with grief. I would be more worried if he didn't show any emotion to Ms Whyte's death."

"How so?"

"Because it would prove that he is completely detached from the world and honestly no one wants to see a person be alone,"

I sighed and leaned back. "I don't understand," I muttered.

"PC Tyler is returning tomorrow. I think she could talk to you,"

"Nah, she won't tell us anything new." I replied. I rubbed my eyes and yawned. "Sorry, just… this case… Sherlock and all that…"

"It's alright," Lestrade said. "I think we could all do with a nightcap,"

I folded my arms staring at the particles on the computer screen. It was hopeless. I wasn't as good as Sherlock. I wasn't nearly as smart as him. If he was acting; he must have realised that I could never solve a case on my own. I frowned, knowing that my thoughts must have sounded stupid, before realising that no one could hear my thoughts.

"Have you ever considered that Mr. Holmes might be the killer?"

We turned to see a young woman standing at the door. She had bright blue eyes and her face was framed with thick black hair. In all respects she was beautiful, but the heavy duty police suit she wore gave no compliment to her figure. Tucked under her left arm was a police cap.

"Anne?" Lestrade stood up. "What are you doing here?"

Then something clicked. As Lestrade and she talked things began to make sense. Sherlock's ramblings when we all thought he was going mad.

Without forethought; I launched myself at her.

…

"JOHN!" Lestrade hauled me off Tyler, she sat against the wall breathing heavily. Her eyes filled with fright. "What the hell is the matter with you?" He bellowed.

"I knew he wasn't mad. I knew there was something more!" I said. "You said so yourself, 'Anne is a popular name… Why PC Tyler's first name is Anne!'"

"Coincidence!"

"There's no such thing!" I shouted. "Things happen for a reason, whether a tiny or massive one. Sherlock has never believed in coincidences!"

"John, think things through!" Lestrade said calmly. "You're sounding as mad as him!"

"Where were you the night Marie Whyte died?" I yelled.

"I was at home with my mother," She said.

"No, you weren't!" I yelled.

"John!" Lestrade barked. "Restrain yourself."

I stared at Anne. "Sherlock doesn't believe in coincidence, and there are too many in this case." I said breathing deeply. "She is connected, I don't know how, but she is."

"So… She was the one that shot you, the one that has been giving you weird phone messages, the one who poisoned Ms Whyte and all the other prostitutes in the city?" Lestrade scoffed. "For gods sake!"

"Listen!" I snapped. "I dunno how she did it, why she did it and whatever other the other thing may be, I just know she did,"

"You have no proof!"

I strained to look at her; trying to deduce just like Sherlock did. Then I saw it. In her back pocket was a water bottle. "There," I said, pointing to it. "The water, check the water,"

Anne looked confused. "Why?"

"Have you got something to hide?" I asked.

"No, I just…" Anne looked nervous.

Lestrade folded his arms and frowned at her. "Then let us have a look." He said. "If there is nothing incriminating then you're free to go,"

"No," I said. "She'll kill again,"

"How many times?" Lestrade said. "She's a policewoman, her duty is to protect and serve."

"How right you are sir," Anne said, her gun cocking in her hand. Tiny tears fell down her face as she pointed the weapon towards us.

"What the hell?" Lestrade cried. "Officer Tyler, _put that down!"_

"Why?" She asked, her voice becoming hysterical. "All I need to do is shoot, leave for 5 minutes and destroy the tape then I can come back and 'discover' you,"

"Tyler," Lestrade said. "Put the gun down,"

"I couldn't make him see," Anne said. "The perfect cover for Mr Sherlock Holmes. Oh yes, he pretends he is insane and gets himself locked up in the madhouse… While I stupidly come down here and expose myself to John Watson. The almost as clever as Sherlock Holmes. Perfect. So smart of him." She let out a hysterical laugh, tears falling thick and fast. "And of course, I couldn't let you test the water… I was so ready to make it all better again. Blame poor little Keith a little more, while I continue to patrol the fucking city! Don't you move a muscle!" She shouted pointing her gun at me as I tried to move towards her.

I held my hands in surrender. She laughed a little, lowering the gun, she looked at it thoughtfully. "I never thought it would come to this… I thought that stupid Dr Watson would leave me be. But no… You're a lot smarter than you come across in your blogs,"

"You read my blogs?" I asked.

"Is that really important right now?" Lestrade hissed.

"Where did you hear about my blog?" I asked her, ignoring the Inspector.

"Oh everyone in the force has read it," Anne said absentmindedly. She laughed again. "And he tried to warn you two away from the case… Just like he said he would. Try and keep you away from it all so that I could carry on unnoticed… I guess it's a failure on my part… I made the bodies so easy to find… But nothing can outsmart Mr Sherlock Holmes."

"Please," The lab technician said; who had been silent up until now. "Please… I have two kids… They need me!"

"Do I look like I give a shit and a half?" Anne screeched. "You deserve to die! Poking your nose into God's plans like I dunno what,"

"Anne," I said calmly, "Please look at what you are doing, think about it,"

She smiled. "No," She said, tears still crawling down her face; she was calmer now – like everything made sense. She raised her gun and fired.

We held our breath waiting to see who had been shot. Anne looked over at us, curious. Then her hand fell over her stomach. She touched the blood and stared at it. "Oh my god," She whispered. "Help me,"

She fell to her knees. I ran forward holding her head and looked up to see who the shooter was. Mycroft Holmes stood at the doorway, his face sombre, gun still in his hand. "Shot her through and through, John," He said calmly. "So she can stand trial for what she has done,"

**As ever please leave a little review. Thanks**


	24. Follow the Cops back Home

_Adam pulled on his high visibility jacket and shoved his winter coat into the locker. Someone tapped his shoulder and he looked over. He smiled. "Hey, Anne,"_

"_What's the plan for tonight?" She asked sitting on the bench._

"_You know you're not supposed to be in here, it is the men's changing room,"_

"_No honey, you just read the sign wrong," Adam smiled at her knowing that her humour was slightly twisted. She brushed a stand of her hair away. "Seriously, where are we patrolling tonight?"_

"_Sheet says Southbank,"_

"_Cool,"_

_Adam said nothing as he pulled out his torch and pulled on his gloves. "How long do you want to go on with this?" He asked._

"_Are you backing out on me?" Anne asked._

"_No – I…" Adam sighed. "I'm just saying that…" He sighed. "Never mind."_

_Anne stood up and kissed Adam sweetly. "Soon it'll be over. Once Sherlock Holmes puts Keith in the hospital we'll be fine."_

"_Do you really want to be here?" He asked. "You might be seen. Remember you're supposed to be at your mums,"_

"_Don't worry, Kathy's managing the desk."_

"_And Julian?"_

"_Already out looking for fresh meat,"_

_Adam said nothing looking back into his locker he pulled out a familiar bottle of water that was stashed at the back where no one could find it. _

"_Seriously," Anne said. "Are you losing hope in this?"_

"_No," Adam snapped. "I'm just… Tired of it… the constant cover-up… I just can't wait for the transfer," _

"_I'll miss London. So much history. I mean… Jack the Ripper… Sweeny Todd…" Anne looked sad for a moment. "Never mind," She shoved his cap on his head. "Ready Serge?" _

_He grinned. "Course," He kissed her gently, his hand under her chin. _

…

_Anne and Adam walked quietly down the Southbank streets. So far it was quiet as death. They walked in silence and not a word was shared between them since they left the station. Not that there needed to be as they were content just being in each other's company. _

"_There," Anne pointed to the street corner as a prostitute had stopped talking to a guy through his car window. She waved him off as she saw Adam and Anne walk towards them. "Hello, dear," Anne said sweetly. "You alright?"_

_The woman lit her cigarette and sighed. "I'm fine." She said. "Leave me alone,"_

"_Where are you living?" Adam asked. "It's late and we've heard that there's a serial killer on the loose,"_

"_So?" The prostitute asked._

"_So," Anne said. "He's targeting women like you,"_

_The prostitute took another drag. She nodded silently. "Alright then," She began to walk steadily down the street, clutching her arms as the winter breeze began to pick up. She finished her cigarette and stamped it on the ground. _

"_What's your name, Sweetheart?" Anne asked. _

_The prostitute began to cough violently. Adam pulled out his water bottle and handed it to her. "Here, drink this,"_

_She took it gratefully and swallowed a mouthful down. "It's Gwen,"_

"_That's a pretty name," Anne said. "I have a cousin who wants to call her daughter Gwen."_

_Gwen nodded. "That water tastes strange," She said. _

"_Yes, well," Anne said nothing more. Gwen took another step forward and tripped. Adam caught her._

"_What… What did you do to me?" She asked wearily as he set her down on the ground. _

"_Knife now," Anne ordered. Adam handed her the knife and she bent down to carve the symbol on the girl's ankle. Gwen began to try and kick her away but was drowned in her efforts. "Sh, honey… The pain will be over soon." Anne said smiling sinisterly. "You think you can poison my town with your filthy business," She muttered. _

_Adam looked up suddenly. "What was that?" He asked._

"_What was what?" She asked. _

"_That!" He hissed. _

_Anne listened for a moment. "Someone's coming," She said. "Hurry!"_

_Adam tore a little bit of hair from Gwen's left temple and tucked it into a plastic bag. He pushed it into the sole of his shoe, knowing that no one would look there. _

"_Well go!" Anne hissed. "Go see what it is!"_

_Adam got up and looked around the corner. "It's ok, it's just some homeless bum."_

"_Did he see anything?" Anne asked._

"_Doubt it," Adam replied. "He looks stoned,"_

"_Thank fuck," Anne said, Gwen tried calling but Anne slapped her down. "Shut up you filthy whore," She hissed. "Or we'll slit you so much that people'll think your neck is smiling!"_

_Gwen looked up terrified but the effects of the poison were beginning to show. Her eyes dropped sleepily and her breathing rate had fallen. _

_Anne smiled and stood up. "Let's go," She said. "We've got what we needed."_

…

_Adam and Anne passed the sleeping drug addict. He bent down and shook him awake._

"_Will people nae leave me to nap in peace?" He cried angrily rubbing his eyes and beadily looking up at them. "Oh.. good evening you good for nothing police officers!"_

"_Sir could you please remove yourself away from the area?" Anne asked. "It's dangerous around here especially at this time of night,"_

"_Oh right, then tell me this officers where were you when I was robbed of all my possessions all my wealth and all my friends?" He asked bitterly, standing up and beginning to move his trolley away. In the dim light of the moon, he looked almost like Robert Carlyle and his thin frame was well hidden by his red checked shirt. _

"_Is this your trolley, Sir?" Anne asked._

"'_Course it's mine," He snapped._

"_Really, because it says Tesco direct on it," Adam said. _

"_Damn," The addict muttered. "I had been meaning to paint over that,"_

"_Sir, are you sure you have no where to sleep tonight?" _

"_If I had, do you think I'd be sleeping here? Don't ask stupid questions," He lit a cigarette. "Now would you please go away?"_

"_Alright sir," Anne said. "As long as you keep quiet, alright?"_

"_I was sleeping till you woke me up; I think I was as quiet as I could be!"_

_Adam and Anne began to walk away smiling happily once out of prying eyes, they joined their hands in a tender lovers way and moved off into the distance._

**ONE MORE CHAPTER LEFT GUYS!**

**EEKKK! ITS SO EXCITING – Tell me what you think of this chapter!**


	25. Pure Morning

**Thanks for the amazing support guys - a few of you have mentioned that Sherlock's madness is much like Hamlets… Well I hope not, I've never watched it or indeed read it – I'm sorry, but I find Shakespeare a little dull but I am hoping to watch the David Tennant version of it soon. Anyways, I hope this is a good enough ending for everyone, please let me know what you think!**

Sherlock Holmes sat opposite PC Anne Tyler. She smiled sinisterly looking up at him. He ached from his experiences from the institution, but all in all, mentally sound unlike Anne who rocked back and forth slightly and blinking furiously

"I bet you want to know how I did it," She whispered.

"I don't really care," Sherlock shrugged. "Case solved. My work is done."

"No… You do care. One of your weaknesses, I've heard…" Anne said. "Such stories about the infamous Sherlock Holmes… The Case of the six spiders… The Black Rose… Hound of the Baskervilles… All the greats. I love your website… Real clever…"

"Oh god," Sherlock sighed. "I'm gonna hear about how you were trying to create a case that even I couldn't solve…"

"That's a small percentage,"

"Will draw me a pie chart?" Sherlock asked bored.

"I bet you don't even know who invented it," Anne smiled.

"Like I said," Sherlock muttered. "I don't care."

"Don't you want to know why I did it?" Anne grinned.

"Does no one listen to me anymore?" Sherlock asked exasperated. "I don't care!"

"Yeah you do…" Anne grinned. "Because this case killed her… What was her name...? Marie?"

Sherlock was up in flash. He grabbed Anne's neck and pushed her against the wall. She clutched at his hand, gasping for breath. "You don't have authority to speak her name," He seethed.

"See?" Anne gasped. "You want to know!"

"What the hell is going on in here?"

Sherlock turned sharply. He let go of Anne. She fell to her knees clutching her chest, taking in long deep breaths. Lestrade looked between the two of them.

"Sherlock, a word," He said.

Sherlock stared at him for a long minute. He glared back at Anne then followed the inspector out of the room, his face flushed with fury.

"I know you're upset," Lestrade said. "I know that this case means a lot to you. I know that you're hurting and you want to see this… Bitch in pain, the same kind of pain that you're in. But attacking them inside an interview room is not the way to do it. You could get sued-"

"Let them," Sherlock snapped.

"Oh shut up," Lestrade said. "This is serious, Sherlock. If you can't handle these emotions then go home. We have our killer."

"I can handle it,"

"Well I'm sitting in with you – no arguments Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't say a word. He pursed his lips and opened the door. Anne was huddled against the corner, her eyes streaked with tears. He felt a twinge of guilt, but shook it away, uncaring.

"Sit up," Lestrade ordered. Anne crawled to her feet and sat miserably opposite the two detectives.

"Water," She croaked.

"No," Sherlock snapped, leaning forward.

"We can't deny her of her human rights," Lestrade said.

"Why not?" Sherlock retorted. "Why should she have human rights when she took the right of living away from so many people?"

Lestrade couldn't think of an answer. He sighed and sat beside the young detective, clasping his hands. Anne blinked back the tears.

"I didn't do it all by myself," She whispered.

"I'm quite aware of that." Sherlock said. "Inspector Lestrade has apprehended the rest of them. Unluckily for you, they don't need to suffer."

"Suffer from what?" Anne asked.

"Me," Sherlock growled, his voice suddenly low and menacing. Anne said nothing. Sherlock leaned back. "Go on then. Why did you do it?"

"I'm not going to tell you," She breathed.

"And you were so eager to tell me," Sherlock said. "How did you do it?"

"It was easy!" Anne cried. "Stupid prostitutes… Don't know a thing! Stupid bitches,"

"You're a police officer," Lestrade snapped, he too was becoming increasingly angry. "It was your oath to protect and serve,"

"That was the whole point," Anne breathed. "They taint our streets, strip our cities of all good. Filth!" She spat on the ground.

"You're mother was one," Sherlock concluded. "She didn't take care of you like she was supposed to…"

"Good old Sherlock Holmes." Anne said. "The simple art of deduction. That was good. And I don't care how you managed that… She was a whore. Taking home a different man every night… I heard everything. Mum's are supposed to care for you… But she didn't. _She _never cared. As long as the money kept coming in, she'd keep fucking coming,"

"Bad childhoods account for nothing," Lestrade said. "Not when you've murdered 9 women."

"You idiot," Anne shrieked. "I was protecting the streets! I was protecting our children!"

"One of the girls was pregnant!" Lestrade said hotly.

"Do you think I give a fuck?" Anne asked, hysterically. "I was doing that child a favour!"

"Yeah big favour, not living and all!" Lestrade said.

"Did you shoot John Watson?" Sherlock asked.

"No!" Anne laughed. "That was Kathy, she's always been a shooter,"

"You're pretty quick to point fingers," Lestrade commented.

"If I go down, they all go down." Anne hissed.

"Alright." Sherlock said. "Why did you do it?"

"That's not fun!" Anne said. "Do you want to know how I got them to take the poison?"

"Not yet… I want to know how you managed to mix the poison. Where did you find the instructions?" Sherlock asked.

"You still haven't clicked!" Anne laughed. "Your brother. I stole it from your brother! The police at the CCTV room distracted that idiot Alis, whilst I got what I needed."

Sherlock leaned forward. "Aren't you so clever? What about the symbol?"

"A distraction,"

"And the hair?"

"Again; just distractions," Anne chuckled.

"How did you get them to ingest it?" Lestrade asked.

"That was easy. They're so stupid when they're high or wasted," Anne muttered. "But they always need a drink…"

"She spiked the water. Gave it to them when they got thirsty, death was slow or fast depending on the levels of poison in the water." Sherlock said. "It was easy, perfect."

"Why thank you,"

"It wasn't a compliment," Sherlock snapped. Anne's face fell. "So… Were you behind John's phone calls and texts?"

"That was easy," Anne sniggered.

"Alright then." Lestrade said. "How did you manage with Keith?"

"Bloody arse was already on the edge. Perfect set up. Just witnessing a murder set him over the edge. So much fun."

"Okay then," Lestrade said. "Really, why did you do it?"

Anne gave a small smile, but said nothing. Lestrade slammed his fist onto the metal table. "Tell me, now!" He shouted.

Anne leaned forward. "No," She whispered.

"Why did you kill all of them?" Lestrade said angrily. "Why?"

"Not saying!" She said.

"Now!"

Anne gave a shaky grin. "Because," She whispered. "Killings folk… It makes me glad…"

Lestrade stared at her wide-eyed. Sherlock said nothing. He stood up violently and marched out of the room, kicking the seat as he went.

…

I shifted slightly having just redone my bandages. Sherlock was in the kitchen sampling something – it looked like a human finger. He was completely absorbed in his work.

"So…" I said. "Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock murmured.

"Well it's just…" I sighed. "Sherlock, you were in a hospital. Not just that, it was an institution for the insane. How can you just go back to normal in a few days of being released?"

"Do not ask John and I shan't tell," Sherlock muttered.

"Were you really ill or was it just a ploy to lure Tyler into the open?" I asked. "Or was it a way to get stoned? Sherlock – answer me,"

"The answer I give you will not be enough," Sherlock said. "For you, to know how I function is essential. Can't you just leave it be?"

"Sherlock," I said sternly.

He sighed and looked up from the microscope, his face fallen. "I'm not sure, John" He said. "Initially it was an idea to bring Anne to the forefront. I thought that me mentally unstable might provoke her to accuse me. But after a few hours in that place… I thought that I was generally mad. Or at least heading that way…"

"Why?"

"Does it really matter?" Sherlock asked, peering back into the microscope.

"It does." I replied.

Sherlock sighed. "I… I saw my past… It was almost like rifling through a scrap yard that has collected over the years. In barely a day I had relived my worst experiences… And occasionally some of the best."

"Was Sabrina a part of those experiences?" I asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "No," He muttered.

"You don't feel sad at her death?" I asked. "No grief? Nothing?"

"Will feeling sad help bring her back from the dead?" Sherlock asked.

"No-" I said.

"Then why should I feel remorse? Millions die each day, I don't mourn them,"

"She died trying to catch the killer," I said. "She was trying to impress you."

"So were you," He replied.

"Sherlock, it's not natural to feel nothing when someone you used to love has died," I said.

Sherlock turned to me, his face stone cold and sombre. "Would you rather have me miserable? Unable to think? Depressed? Calling in grief councillors to help me cope?"

"Of course not,"

"Then I shall continue as normal," Sherlock replied, bending back down low over his work.

"Don't you feel anything?" I asked, standing so I could speak to him, eye-to-eye.

Sherlock didn't reply, his head still bent low.

"Sherlock?" I asked.

"I'm sorry I can't be the hero you write about in your blogs," He said calmly. "I'm sorry I can't match up to every human emotion. I wish everyday that I could, but that is not who I am. People don't change,"

"Yes they do," I replied.

"They don't. They want to have the illusion that they can change, that they can make a difference to themselves and to the world around them. It simply isn't true. We're all slaves to our own nature," He said. "And I know what my nature is,"

I sighed and nodded, making my way over to his side. He smiled a little. "I'm glad that it wasn't so bad a shot. You seem to have recovered remarkably quickly," He said.

I chuckled. "Yeah. I'm still going." I looked at him. "Are you sure you're okay?" I asked.

"Always," He shrugged. "Are you going to write this up in your blog?"

"Not if you don't want me to," I replied.

"Thank you,"

"So… why did Anne do it?"

Sherlock looked at me. His light green eyes flickered, the way they always do when he is about to mislead someone. "She said that it was revenge."

"Revenge?" I asked. "A motivator nonetheless, but not a powerful one."

"Mm, she was getting back at her mother." Sherlock said. "A dish best served cold I guess,"

"I guess," I muttered. "Listen, I'm going to go down to the shops, do you need anything?"

"Are you sure you should be going down?" He asked.

"I've recovered from the shock and shot, Sherlock," I said. "Besides, I need to walk and…" I looked around the little flat. "And… this place isn't the best place for it,"

Sherlock nodded curtly. "Very well,"

"Do you need anything?" I asked.

He shook his head. "No," He muttered.

"Right," I said. I pulled on my coat and stepped out onto the landing, closing the door behind me. I stood there for a moment not really doing anything. Then I heard Sherlock's voice rip in emotion. I blinked back tears and looked at the ceiling, listening to my best friend being destroyed by these new emotions. Wanting to go back inside, but knowing I couldn't invade this very personal, very private moment. The morning light shown through the windows and a new day was about to begin. And perhaps a new era in our friendship.

_**~ FIN**_


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